


Loyalty

by BrowneAshes



Series: Sin to Heaven [1]
Category: Dragon Age, Dragon Age: Origins, Dragon Age: Origins - Awakening
Genre: Angst, Anxiety, Banter, Canon Dialogue, F/M, Fan Comics, Fanart, Fluff, From Sex to Love, Happy Murder Family, Implied/Referenced Suicide, Intimacy, Love Triangles, Multi, Suicide Attempt, Unrequited Love, but fade to black, casual name dropping, love square, occasionally NSFW, refuse to say the word love, usually
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-17
Updated: 2018-09-09
Packaged: 2019-05-24 08:06:21
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 42
Words: 26,871
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14950832
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BrowneAshes/pseuds/BrowneAshes
Summary: On this episode of Loyalty: Mahariel meets and recruits Zevran, much to the annoyance of half her companions.Inspired by the frustrating true story of my Mahariel playthrough. Lovingly called the Love Square, due to the fact my intended romance option never stopped flirting with Leliana while Lyna desperately tried to woo him. Meanwhile, I was cockblocked by Alistair pining after Mahariel to the point every other companion except Leliana thought I was romancing him instead of Zevran. I was halfway through the game by the time the Magic Fingers dialogue finally became an option.Sadly, no, this won't be as slow burn as the summary makes it sound, but rather "Neither of us will admit we love each other, even though we clearly do."I have become obsessed with Dragon Age, so how else do you work out your feelings but with fanfiction?Anyway, here's Wonderwall.





	1. The Recruitment

“These were Crows,” Leliana quietly remarked as she ducked closer to Lyna Mahariel. “That is very bad – and… very interesting.”

Mahariel gave the bard a long look, equal parts confused, suspicious and flabbergasted that the heavily armed and well-trained “bandits” that nearly kicked their asses were _interesting._

Moreover: “What in Elgar’nan’s name are Crows?” she hissed back at her companion, “other than _birds.”_

“Assassins.”

Mahariel glanced at Alistair, then groaned softly. “Great, you think they got the wrong person?”

“Doubtful,” Leliana smiled.

The two Wardens shared a nervous look. It was a strange feeling to be both resigned and fearful, Mahariel thought to herself. Alistair was quiet for his part, though he was certainly on alert in case one of the assassins had merely been wounded or stunned.

“Check for survivors,” Mahariel instructed, catching a particularly judgmental look from Sten. Though, since they had picked him up outside Lothering, she wasn’t entirely sure that wasn't just his face. He didn’t talk much, though Leliana swore he wasn’t as prickly as he appeared.

Every ill-fated bandit was dead. She and her companions did little but loot the bodies. Tragic really, that they would not be able to question any of them. Not that Mahariel didn’t doubt they came from Loghain – he’d already put a bounty out on their heads. Granted, hiring an assassin seemed like _overkill_ but who was she to judge some shemlen lord? They were odd, after all. Maybe it was standard practice…

"Ohhh...” came a groan from underneath Morrigan’s staff. She sniffed and again roughly prodded the corpse at her feet. Another groan.

“Found one,” the mage commented dryly and stepped back.

“What?” the corpse asked, feebly raising up on one arm and struggled to regain his bearings.

The first person he saw was Mahariel, looming over him, arms crossed with a very surly looking Alistair towering over her.

“Oh,” the elf simply said, as he gazed up at them. He pushed himself up into a sitting position with a grimace, but made no move to rise to his feet or attack. He didn’t even reach for a dagger, though both Sten and Assanris were ready for a fight.

“I rather thought I'd wake up dead. Or not wake up at all, as the case may be,” the elf commented holding up his hands in a signal of surrender. Mahariel made no move, but to raise an eyebrow.

“You know what comes next,” she pointed out with a smirk.

“Ah, then I am to be interrogated. Very well – let my save you a little time,” the elf said, licking the blood from his teeth and spitting it upon the dry earth. Again he grimaced. “My name is Zevran, Zev to my friends. I am a member of the Antivan Crows.”

Mahariel glances at Leliana. For a chantry sister… she knew quite a bit more about the unsavory things of this world. That was to be remembered for later.

“I was brought here for the sole purpose of slaying any surviving Grey Wardens. Which I have failed at, sadly.”

Behind Lyna, Sten snorted.

“It’s true,” Zevran said, nodding his agreement to Sten, “It sets a rather poor precedent doesn't it? To bad for me.”

“Tell me of the assassins,” Mahariel demanded evenly.

“Oh? You I am surprised you haven’t heard much of the Crows here,” the elf commented, though he didn’t seem terribly insulted. Mahariel felt his eyes boring into her flesh – no doubt sizing up the vallaslin she wore. Backwoods, Dalish, he was no doubt thinking.

“They are assassins outside of Antiva,” Leliana supplied. “Very powerful and renowned for always getting the job done, so to speak. Someone went to great expense to hire this man.”

“Three guesses as to who that is,” Alistair grumbled.

Mahariel turned an inquisitive eye to the assassin sitting not three feet from her. He spread his hands wide and shrugged, a movement that the elf instantly regret. He doubled over in pain, almost immediately, and resolved not to overextend his broken and bloody limbs again. “A rather taciturn fellow in the capital. Loghain, his name was, I believe.

“I assume you threaten his power, hmm?”

“You could say that,” Mahariel replied. Morrigan shot her a look. Don’t say too much – he’s still the enemy. A coiled viper that could strike at any moment, if she were not careful.

A pity, really. Mahariel was rarely careful. That was how she ended up in this entire mess to begin with. The Dalish hunter sheathed her dagger and knelt before the assassin. He regarded her with smirking interest; yet the cool assassin lay just beneath, lurking in the depths of his eyes.

Mahariel always did have a weakness for the dangerous ones…

“How loyal are you to him?”

“I was contracted to perform a service. If I succeeded, I would return to Antiva, and the Crows would inform him of the results, if he did not already know. If I had failed, I would be dead. Or I should be, at least as far as the Crows are concerned. So no, I am not loyal to him at all.”

“And what will the Crows do now that you have failed?” Mahariel asked, taking her eyes off the assassin to look into a pouch on her belt. Everyone but Morrigan took a step forward in concern – how foolish to take her eyes off the assassin sitting within arm’s reach! Zevran only watched her with an amused and curious expression.

“The Crows will not suffer failure,” he replied simply. “If you do not kill me, the Crows will.”

“And why are you telling me this?” Mahariel extended her hand toward him. In it was a small vial of a pulsing red liquid. Zevran canted his head to the side, surprised that he was being offered a health potion at a time such as this.

Regardless, he took it. What a strange day.

“I wasn’t paid for silence,” he replied uncorking it and downing the shot. Oh, some of these potions did taste rather bitter when they weren’t cut with honey.

Mahariel regarded him quietly for a moment, then asked “How much were you paid?”

“This is not the time for _vanity_ ,” Sten growled.

Mahariel just grinned.

“I wasn’t paid anything,” Zevran replied with a shrug. “The Crows were paid _handsomely.”_

“Doesn’t sound like a fair gig.”

“Mmmmm,” Zevran said, stretching sore muscles. It was always a marvel how quickly flesh knit back together after downing one of those health potions. “Being an Antivan Crow is not for the ambitious. Not that I had much choice.”

Mahariel was no longer amused. A steely stillness overcame her. _Choice._ She knew the pain that came with your agency being stripped from you. Damn that mirror. Damn her, and damn Duncan.

Well, that settled the matter, didn’t it?

“You were a slave?” She inquired.

“Of a sort,” Zevran said with a shrug. “I was a bargain, too, or so I am led to believe.” He watched her quietly, sensing an opening.

“I imagine it hard to give your loyalty to someone who has stripped you of choice,” she commented softly. He smiled.

“Up until the point someone expects me to die for failing, I am a very loyal person. If you wish,” Zevran said, his voice dropping to a sultry tone that drew frowns from Alistair and Sten, “and you are done interrogating, we can discuss it further.”

Mahariel swallowed, surely she was blushing? “I’m listening,” she stuttered. She could feel Morrigan roll her eyes so hard they’d fall out of her head.

Beside her, Leliana was grinning from ear to ear.

“Here’s the thing,” Zevran said, leaning forward. Mahariel found herself leaning toward him as well. “I failed to kill you, so my life is forfeit. f you don't kill me, the Crows will. Thing is, I like living,” a bald-faced lie if there ever was one, but he strangely couldn’t stop the words pouring from his mouth. Refuse it, he thought. Or if she wouldn’t perhaps the man behind her who looked like he was about to explode. The qunari or the mage. Someone… someone had to give him what he _really_ wanted. “Let me serve you instead.”

Mahariel felt herself trembling. “And if they come for you?”

“You are one to give them pause,” he purred. “And I happen to know their wily ways. There are worse things in life than serving the whims of a deadly sex goddess.”

Mahariel damn near coughed. She would have burst into laughter if the edge in his eyes, the way he searched hers so desperately didn’t hold her so captivated. There was something there that he wasn’t saying. Something dark and terrible – and it didn’t seem dangerous at all. In fact, he seemed on the precipice of begging.

“Alright,” she swallowed, “You’re in.”

“What?! You're taking the assassin with us now? Does that really seem like a good idea?” Alistair blurted. He looked at the others to back him up. Leliana outright shook her head, and he wasn’t sure if that was an agreement or disagreement. Morrigan wouldn’t agree just on principal that it was him saying it. He looked at Sten for help. Stoic and silent as ever. Regardless of what happened, he didn’t seem to care.

“Assanris?” Alistair asked, turning finally to the dog. Surely the mabari would have sense, but the dog was sniffing at Zevran’s upraised hand. It seemed the canine had also agreed to Zevran’s company: after nearly swallowing the elf’s hand in a sloppy kiss the dog sat and scratched his ear.

“Greeeat,” he grumbled.

Mahariel giggled as she helped Zevran to his feet. “Why are you surprised. I pick up strays; it’s what I do.”

“Heeyyy,” Alistair whined. “It’s true, but oouch.”

“I would examine your food and drink for poison from now on were I you...” Morrigan sighed.

Zevran nodded in agreement, with a crooked smile. “Fair advice to anyone.”

“Welcome Zevran. Having an Antivan Crow join us sounds like a fine plan.”

“Oh?” Zevran asked his grin broadening as he looked passed Mahariel. “You are another companion to be then? I wasn't aware such _loveliness_ existed amongst adventurers, surely.”

Mahariel’s heart his her feet like a rockfall. Well, so much for “deadly sex goddess” she thought gloomily. She never heard Leliana’s reply.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This began as a comic - until I quickly lost patience. A snippet from this chapter's original incarnation because I just could not exclude jealous Alistair.  
> 


	2. Missed Targets

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Frustration mounts in the love square - as Zevran continues to flirt with Leliana, who continues to turn him down, while Mahariel pines for the assassin and Alistair get's the entirely wrong idea. 
> 
> Sten and Morrigan are aggressively rolling their eyes somewhere off panel.
> 
> Captions Below.

  


Left to Right  
Page One  
1\. Zevran: So, I imagine it has been some time for you, Leliana.  
2\. Leliana: Some time for me? I don't know what you mean.  
4\. Zevran: Since you last 'knocked boots,' shall we say?  
5\. Leliana: there are more important things in life than 'knocking boots,' Zevran.  
Zevran: Oh, I'll not argue that. I simply mean that the body has urges. _Yours--_  
6: Zevran: Yours must be _considerable._  
Leliana: That is a very personal question.  
Zevran: I meant no offense. 

Page Two  
-1. Zevran: I simply offer my _services_ should you ever need _release._  
1\. Alistair: Me too.  
Mahariel: What?  
+1. Leliana: Let me think about it...  
2: Alistair: You know, never--- uhm...  
3\. Alistair: Too much.  
Mahariel: Yep.  
Alistair: Too much.  
5: Leliana: Should every man in Fereldan die, you may have a chance.  
Mahariel + Alistair: Shit.  
Zevran: Aha! Progress.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Part Two, in which I actually was fairly content with how the comic turned out. (Until I uploaded it here, ah the artist's agony.)
> 
> No one's faces look the same tho; the opposite of Different Character; Same Face Syndrome.  
> Ah, well. C'est la vie.  
> Also, forgive that "Life" spelling error. My thanks.   
> Also, Also, Zev's tattoo.


	3. Afraid of Refusal

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Unresolved Chapter:  
> Alistair contemplates the rose found in Lothering. Assanris helps him decide what to do.
> 
> No one is happy at the end of the night.


	4. Commonalities

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Zevran, Leliana and Mahariel bond over highly suspect actions.  
> Heavy canon banter included because I just love some of their interactions. Fluffy af.

“We have much in common, Zevran,” Leliana mused one day as they stepped out Redcliffe’s Chantry. Such places always made her introspective. Today, was no different; except that this time she was surrounded by people rather like herself. She could not keep her eyes off Zevran.

The man was no fool, either. He’d been giving her rather sultry glances in return. Leliana wasn’t sure where the jokes ended and the true propositions actually began. Maybe it didn’t even matter.

He was insufferable, either way. He was also occasionally mean, and altogether a downright terror, but she found herself growing quite close to him. After all, there was a certain camaraderie between them thanks to their personal histories. The same hurts, the same fears and the same joys. Only the details were different. What mattered most were the wounds that were still fresh in them both.

Unfortunately, Zevran didn’t seem to feel the same way.

“Other than our purity and beauty?”

Six steps ahead of them, Morrigan laughed. Alistair shot her a disgruntled look and grumbled something along the lines of “Hey, looks like we _actually_ agree on something.”

Leliana shot them both a dirty look. 

“I mean, we both spent time in places other than Ferelden,” she said, loud enough for the two snickering children to hear her. “You are an assassin, and I a bard.”

Zevran arched a brow. He quickly caught onto the young sister’s direction. 

Behind them, a very oil feeling Mahariel listened quietly and wondered how long before someone started proselytizing…  _Atone for your sins, yadda yadda yadda._

“Then you were called upon to kill,” Zevran drawled. 

“Often.”

Wait. _What?_

Mahariel couldn’t school her expression into neutrality fast enough. Luckily she was behind them so they couldn’t see her eyes bug out of her head. She’d _have_ to ask Leliana about that back at camp.

“I didn’t like it,” Leliana confessed. “But I did it anyway.”

“You didn’t like it?” Zevran blurted.

“Perhaps this is not the best time,” Sten cautioned. His disappointment that he had to speak to them at all was palpable. Alistair had damn near sprinted ten paces ahead of them up the road. Mahariel wasn’t even sure he knew where they were going.

“Let’s not tempt fate,” Morrigan added, glancing back at them with as much motherly disapproval she could muster, which really was just several measures of judgment under furrowed brows.

There was a moment of silence shared between assassin and bard. Then they side-stepped toward each other as if on cue; Leliana hooked an arm around the smaller man’s shoulders, and he an arm around her waist.

“You didn’t like the thrill of the hunt?” he whispered.

Leliana smiled sheepishly. “I suppose… I did like that. The hunt,” she clarified quickly, “not the killing.”

Zevran chuckled knowingly. “The killing just signifies the end of the hunt. Without it, the chase goes on”

Mahariel followed closely behind, trying to listen in on the conversation. She too was not someone who shied away from the hunt. The Dalish _did_ have a certain reputation; one that she preferred to uphold, to be entirely honest.

“You killed your marks cleanly, I hope.”

“Whenever possible,” Leliana affirmed.

Mahariel smiled to herself. Even among killers there was mercy. They were good people, her murderers; the whole lot of them – Sten included.

Zevran nodded. “Good, the prey deserves a good death. A clean death,” he commented. He and Leliana fell into a communal silence walking side by side.

Mahariel fell back to Sten’s side, shoving her thumbs into her belt to avoid fidgeting. Until she saw Zevran extend his arm out. He glanced behind him when she did not immediately fill the empty space under his arm.

He knew the entire time she was listening in. Leliana too. She was never the most subtle of elves…

Smiling to herself, she ducked under his arm and wrapped an arm around his waist as he snaked his arm around hers.

“Perhaps you are right,” Zevran said cheerily, “we have much in common.”

Us, the murderous band of three.


	5. Burn for You

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The fact no character comments on the love letters strewn throughout the game is a tragedy. I decided to fix that.

Mahariel justified the rifling of peoples’ personal trunks as part of her job. She was looking for way to protect against the darkspawn; against the Blight. Anything counts right? Alistair _had_ mentioned that the Warden’s occasionally did nefarious things for the greater good. Granted, those stories were passed to him by Duncan and the details were sketchy but Mahariel still counted it. 

Besides, shems were shems. 

And occasionally she  _did_ find something worth while. Coin, weaponry, armor sometimes even herbs and potions. It worried her sometimes, how easily lyirum was to be found in some areas… but that was besides the point. And today she found something  _even better._

Lyna quickly covered her mouth to conceal the snorting laughter that bubbled up from her. It wasn’t quick enough; each of her companions regarded her curiously. Well, save Wynne and Sten, neither of whom seemed altogether pleased by the snooping they so often did.

“What is it?” Leliana asked with a twinkle in her eye, “What did you find?”

Lyna giggled wickedly, then turned with a dramatic flair and touched the back of her hand to her forehead. Swooning emphatically, she leaned against a nearby book-case. “My darling Reginald,” she said in a breathy whisper, “I burn for you-”

Zevran and Leliana’s attention were captured, Morrigan rolled her eyes so emphatically she had to have seen her own brain, while Alistair too clamped a hand over his mouth to stifle a snicker.

“And _because_ of you,” Mahariel continued. Alistair could no longer contain his boyish giggling, or blushing. “Please use the enclosed tincture if our love is to endure. Signed _Sarie.”_

“If we are _done,_ children?” Wynne intoned as she turned toward the door. Chastised, but in no way regretful, the party followed.

Mahariel stuffed the letter into her pocket at Leliana’s instruction. “It could be useful,” she said with a grin.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My darling Reginald,
> 
> I burn for you and because of you. Please use the enclosed tincture if our love is to endure.
> 
> \--Sarie


	6. Jealousy

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Comic-Based. Two panels and entirely off of banter from the games. Transcript below.

Alistair: So I'm wondering something... what exactly does a woman see in a man like Zevran?

Leliana: Oh, he's handsome enough for some. Why do you ask?

Alistair: No reason. It's just... doesn't he seem to be a bit too much? The hair, the clothing...

Leliana: I don't understand. A bit too much what? Do you have a problem with him?

Alistair: Beyond the fact that he's an assassin who's tried to kill us more than once. No... no, not really. Do women go for that sort of thing?

Leliana: Where I come from they do, oh yes.

Alistair: Huh. Really? I see.


	7. Nightmares + Restlesness

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> *whispers* They finally do the do.  
> The magic fingers. But it's technically sfw. Also full of angst and some talky-talky stuff before hand, the past the present but never the future. We don't look past today. We certainly don't talk about the possibility of actually having feelings for other people.

Mahariel never before had trouble sleeping. She was the woman you couldn’t put on night watch - leave her alone for an extended period of time and no matter where she was she would fall asleep almost instantly. Whether sitting, perched in a tree or standing straight up, she’d be out like a light and swaying like a pine in a stiff breeze.

But now, Mahariel couldn’t fall alseep or stay asleep for that matter. Endless dreams of twisted toothy faces, gnashing and biting at her. Clawed hands ever reaching and a fierce fire that threatened to burn her up no matter where or how fast she ran. The ever-present vibrato that thrummed in her chest and an endless need for… something. Something bigger than she was.

Something beautiful. Everything and nothing at all.

On top of her nightmares of screams and crackling fire was her waking anxiety. The fate of the world lay in her hands. Orzammar, Elvhenan, Fereldan and every land beyond and in between relied on her and Alistair. And Alistair relied on her.

Every moment of stillness offered her time to think, to stew, to worry until she felt like she would be sick. Her heart thrummed in her chest like a sparrow in a cage until she couldn’t think. There was nothing but fear left, threatening to swallow her up body and soul.

So, she’d taken to occupying her hands, and through them her mind. If she focused on every minute detail of her activity, regardless of how mundane or tedious. It left no room for the fears to creep in and overwhelm her. Tonight her saving grace was fletching. Two sheaves of arrows leaned against the log she occupied by the fire, one of a pale light wood and goose-feather that Leliana preferred, and the heavier shafts that Mahariel preferred.

Lyna was intent on her work, feeling the smooth wood under her fingers, every spine of the feather as it passed through her index and thumb as she fluffed and straightened them. Her eyes hurt, working by moon and firelight, but still she continued.

Soft rustling from one of the tents behind her alerted her of one of her companion’s waking. Behind her in the dirt, Assanris made a quiet bark that was more air flapping through his ample jowls than any real vocalization. His nub of a tail wagged furiously.

“Still awake?” Zevran purred from the entrance of his tent. Althought his hair was free of his typical binding, it was not mussed from sleep. He too was unable to sleep it seemed. “Is it not Alistair’s watch?”

“It is,” Mahariel said gesturing to the forest beyond them, Alistair somewhere inside, on a restless patrol. She turned back to her fletching. “I couldn’t sleep.”

It was a moment of weakness, but it wasn’t at all hard for her to companion to guess her mood. She wasn’t the best at lying in the first place, and Leliana always said she was easy to read. Zevran, no doubt possessed the same skills - there would be no hiding.

“Do you wish to talk?” the assassin offered, pushing his hair off his forehead as he joined her on the log beside the fire. Assanris licked his elbow affectionately, to which Zevran immediately wiped clean with a small grimace.

Mahariel made a soft grunt, frowning at the idea. Mythal guide her - she didn’t care for appearances. Not now. Not with him. She never wanted to be a leader. She never wanted any of this. So why continue to pretend?

She swallowed hard and focused hard on her task. “Before Tam- … my clan found the mirror, I was just a hunter. I was good, but I was not a leader. I was never destined for that role and I didn’t want it. And now…” she trailed off, spreading her hands demonstratively. It didn’t need to be said. She sighed, slumping over her work, and shaking her head. Her eyes burned. “I’m not meant for this anymore than Alistair is meant to be king.”

Zevran nodded knowingly. “I think,” he began, reaching to tenderly caress the back of her neck where he could see her muscles taught from stress, “that you have been a fine leader so far. Perhaps a bit to merciful,” he chuckled, “but that has worked in my favor, no?”

Mahariel laughed softly. The touch of his warm hand upon her neck had her feeling like she was slipping away. There was a great well at her feet, and all she had to do was lean forward just a little bit more and be lost in its comforting embrace. His comforting embrace. Her eyes closed as his fingers eased the tension from her.

“You’re not wrong,” she murmured, softly.

“I rarely am,” Zevran replied with a cocky grin, illiciting another laugh from Mahariel.

He reached to cup her cheek, gently caress the dimple he’d coaxed out of her. It immediately faded under his touch, her whole body tense again.

She _heard_ herself swallow. Was she blushing? She had to be. Could he see by firelight? Slowly her eyes drifted to meet his, the gold in them could not be seen past their brilliant reflections. _Of course he could fucking see you, you moron. He’s an elf._

Zevran chuckled, scooching toward her on the log until their bodies were pressed together from shoulder to hip. Mahariel didn’t pull away, and so Zevran took that as an invitation.

“I know what you need,” he purred, so close she could feel his breath on her skin, making the little hairs on her neck rise and every nerve in her skull tingle as if awoken from a deep slumber.

“A horse?” Mahariel replied dumbly, watching him with wide, dark eyes.

He laughed. “A little late for that, I think--”

“You’re right. Horses don’t do good in ehm, mines, anyway,” Mahariel said, her voice thick and hoarse. Could the others hear? Did she even care?

No, no she did not.

“Maybe a bronto,” she continued on, cursing herself. _Stop talking about stupid things, lean forward, and kiss him you imbecile._ She didn’t. Damn.

Luckily, Zevran was persistent in the face of small talk. “I have another suggestion,” he said, allowing his hand to slide down to the small of her back, where it firmly rested. “We retire to your tent--”

What?

“And I show you the sort of massage skills that one only learned growing up in an Antivan whorehouse."

_What??_

“Are you… sug-gesting what I ehm, th-think you’re suggesting? Zevran?” Mahariel asked. He’d hit on Leliana since they met. He’d hit on Wynne, tease Alistair - probably Sten too if the qunari wouldn’t beat him into the earth, but _this_ was different. This was an honest proposition. This wasn’t hypothetical “maybe later if you want.” This had purpose.

“If you mean to ask whether or not more than a massage is involved, let me simply say that you will not be disappointed by the skills I have picked up over the years,” he said with a wicked gleam in his eye.

Mahariel felt a little woozy. Not in so much as she felt sick, but dizzy. Like flying. This wasn’t good for her, and she couldn’t help but feel a little nervous and giddy all at once.

Zevran must have picked up on her apprehension, for his hand dropped from her jaw and he leaned away from her, allowing her space to breathe and to think. His hand instead enveloped her trembling hand and held it gently.

She cleared her throat, trying to appear cool, calm and collected. She failed miserably. “Oh, I am… ehm, I mean I am ah… ehm. Of a mm- Definitely,” she sighed softly. Zevran’s smile only grew with each stuttered syllable, but his amber eyes were kind, warm… Patient. He waited respectfully for her to finish.

What she finally blurted was far different than the suave retort she had initially intended. “Are you sure about this, Zevran?”

He chuckled softly, nodding. “Why are you so frightened, my dear Grey Warden?” he asked and Mahariel’s heart did another little backflip. “You deserve a little fun,” he continued, soberly. His smile diminished somewhat, “But if you are not of a mind, however--”

Mahariel stopped him. “No. I mean… I am,” she affirmed, squeezing the hand that held hers.

Zevran’s smile was as brilliant as the sun.

Without so much as a breath of hesitation he was on his feet, pulling Mahariel up with him. Assanris’ head rose, curious and excited. _They were going for walkies!_ His tail nubbin wagged furiously in the dirt, causing his whole body to wriggle about.

“Stay,” Lyna commanded, “Keep watch.” But _don’t_ watch. His ears drooped as he replied with another jowl-flopping _boof._

“Come,” Zevran coaxed, leading her toward the only other unoccupied tent in their protective circle. Once they were inside, he began to pull his hair up into a bun to keep it from his face. “If you would kindly undress to your comfort level,” he asked. She was shy; a blushing beauty. He needed to take it slow - be gentle. He had to admit he was going to enjoy this.

But when he turned around he saw a sight that he did not expect. Mahariel, in the span of time it took him to merely utter the words, had disrobed entirely and now stood stark naked before the furs quite boldly. She didn’t wear small clothes, Zevran noted absently to himself.

As if sensing his thoughts, Mahariel gave a bashful shrug. “I’m shy, not a virgin,” she explained, with a mischievous smile tugging at her full lips. That singular smile spoke of many secret trysts and rendezvous in the forest.

Zevran’s grin was lopsided and decidedly dopey. He should have known. Nodding, he gestured for her to lie, which she obediently did - with her arms drawn up to her chest and her feet crossed no less.

So much for relaxation. There was so much tension in her small frame - so much fear locked away in every muscle. Zevran tsked her softly, reaching to take her wrist in his hand. “Now, it would not do for you to tense up so soon, hmm? You will destroy all my hard work,” he chastized.

“Oh… sorry.” Mahariel muttered, allowing Zevran to place her arms at her side and uncross her ankles. She swallowed hard and closed her eyes.

“This will be a simple affair, I am afraid,” Zevran sighed as he traced the lines of her back with his hands. “I have no oils or lotions,” he mourned.

“You don’t carry them all around with you, like Wynne and her soaps?” Mahariel teased, opening her eye to peek at him. “And here I thought you seduced all your targets,” she joked.

“Well, I didn’t expect a Grey Warden to fall for such a ruse,” he explained with a wink. She snorted.

“I guess I’ll take that as a compliment.” Already she felt lighter, the months rolling off her with every stroke of his fingers. How much of it was Zevran’s hands and how much of it was just _Zevran_ she couldn’t be sure. Regardless, she found this time with him invaluable.

For all his boasting, Mahariel _was_ pleased with his performance. She’d behun to wonder just how much of it was manly ego versus raw skill. Turns out, he could back up his words - at least in this.

 

But before she knew it, Mahariel felt the tender brush of his lips against her temple. It alighted a baser instinct within her and Mahariel uttered a quiet “Hmm.”

“Ah, you are awake,” Zevrann murmured, the sound of a smile on his voice.

“I fell asleep?” Lyna asked groggily.

“Quite quickly, yes. I am impressed, and more than a little jealous, my dear.”

Mahariel smiled to herself. That sounded more like her than she’d been since Ostagar.

“Go back to sleep,” Zevran instructed, petting the growing fuzz on her scalp. She needed a shave, she thought. And then: he was gone. Mahariel heard rustling toward the front of the tent and with it a great growing cold crashed down around her.

“Wait,” she said, catching Zevran’s wrist in her own before he made it too far out of the tent. He turned, surprised that she had moved so quickly. She was dead asleep not five minutes ago. “Wait,” Lyna breathed again, her eyes searching his in the dark of the tent. The campfire had died down to embers while they had been here. It must have been a while. He _was_ thorough.

And it was then that Lyna realized something. Something dark and terrible weighed down on him as it did her. That he wasn’t the only one laying awake at night, consumed with wandering, frantic thoughts, unable to sleep. She wasn’t the only one haunted by faces in the dead of night while the rest of the world slept.

He needed this as much as she did. They _both_ deserved a little fun. And it was then that Lyna finally found her courage. “Stay,” she asked without falter or blush. “Please.”

Zevran seemed to consider that a moment before his lips twitched into a smirk. “As you wish,” he purred, and Lyna pulled him back toward her, throwing her arms around his neck as soon as he was near enough to do so. Holding him close as he leaned in to kiss her.

She didn’t expect him to be so… tender? She expected a rough and passionate tumble; throwing each other into the furs and fucking like they would face the archdemon at dawn. But he didn’t. They didn’t. It was leisurely, explorative and oh so gentle.

Dare she say romantic?

Mahariel pushed that thought away as Zevran guided her down into the furs once again. This was _fun._ No feelings. No romance. Just casual… But it didn’t feel that way.

Lyna couldn’t help but giggle as her fingers grasped at the hem of his tunic - an unexpected sound apparently by the elegant twitch of his brows in silent query.

The tables turned. With the grace of her years hunting on and off her feet, Mahariel pushed him down into the furs on his back and removed his shirt in one smooth motion. “You can’t do all the hard work, city boy,” she growled as she positioned herself above him.

 

Outside their tent the fire had not been left with only the dog to tend to it. Curled around the mabari was a young man in warden armor, his only comfort. He stared glumly into the fire, eyes burning with unshed tears.

He knew. He heard. And he hated it. But, Alistair mourned as he fingered the petals of a wilted rose, there was nothing he could do. And she was happy… at least for the moment.

Sighing heavily, he tossed the rose into the embers, and immediately regret it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter was one of the most developed. It spanned 12 pages, several dozen panels and a lot of smushy dialogue with some sweet smut at the end. I only got two and a half pages in before I sat back and went "this is bullshit," and decided to write the rest of it. From here on out there will be significantly less art, if any at all.  
>   
> 


	8. Morning-After

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Conflicting emotions, most of them good. The bad ones? Well, we'll ignore that - and hope our companions do the same. Shame, you can't really hide much from a bard, can you?

Mahariel awoke to birds singing and the soft thu-thump of a heartbeat under her cheek. It was warm for the season and just before dawn. Dark enough to be disoriented but light enough to pick out that the elf she lay against was _not_ someone from her clan.

_Oh, fenedhis._

She sat up quickly, startling Zevran awake. Seconds after, his senses returned to him and he cautiously watched the bashful Mahariel meet his gaze.

“Are you alright?” he asked quietly, hoping that next-day regret hadn’t settled within Mahariel.

She giggled. “I forgot where I was,” she explained, scratching her shoulder. Creators she felt four different conflicting emotions and she wasn’t sure how to deal with any of them.

She felt guilty – it was so soon after Tamlen’s disappearance. She still ached for him in her heart.

She felt a flutter in heart like a hummingbird. She’d spent the night with _Zevran_ – and woke up by his side. He stayed the night.

Horror that her companions would know she’d lain – she fucked – the assassin that tried to kill her. Well, tried to kill them.

Ashamed that she didn’t want them to know, while simultaneously wanting to scream it from the Frostbacks: “Fuck the Blight. Fuck the Wardens. Fuck Duncan _and_ Loghain. I’m moving to Antiva.”

Zevran reached out to cup her cheek, and Mahariel found herself grinning like a love-sick adolescent. She canted her head into the palm of his hand, and turned her dopey smile at him.

“We should get up,” she murmured, “D’you think they heard us?”

“If we did it right? Yes,” Zevran teased, leaning in to kiss her. “Now, where is my shirt, I wonder.”

Neither stopped grinning as they pulled themselves together. Neither stopped giggling, and neither were able to keep themselves from reaching, caressing, grabbing and kissing the other entirely slowing down the whole process. It took far longer than necessary to dress themselves, and they enjoyed every minute of it.

Now, with luck, no one would be awake when they stepped out of the tent.

“Good morning,” Leliana sang, casting a knowing look to the elves. Mahariel blushed red as a strawberry while Zevran wore a self-satisfied smile. The bard’s grin turned decidedly wicked. “I made coffee, I’m sure you need something to wake you up,” _after the ruckus you pulled last night…_

 


	9. Correspondus Interuptus #2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Presented without further comment

“Ooo,” Leliana cooed as she unfolded a letter lifted from a desk in Denerim. “I think we have found another one,” she trilled waving the note at those of her companions more prone to gossip-mongering.

“Oh, don’t keep us in suspense,” Zevran replied. Beside him, Alistair listened trying very hard not to look as interested as he was. Morrigan too looked up from where she was begrudgingly helping Wynne heal Mahariel’s ragged bite mark from a mabari.

“A delicate matter,” Leliana began, sitting atop the desk and swinging her feet, “While I am overwhelmed at the prospect of having you, an unwelcome guest requires that you excuse yourself by the postern of my estate to avoid a mark upon our reputations.” She giggled wickedly at the conclusion. “Signed simply: _M_.”

“I don’t get it,” Mahariel blurted with a frown.

“Oh dear,” Wynne said patting the elf’s arm. “That’s probably a good thing.”


	10. Heart to Heart

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A case of mistaken values. Of hard truths and missed points.  
> Mothers will be mothers - and contrary to the saying mothers know best, sometimes they miss the mark. 
> 
> By a lot.

“Warden, if I may,” Wynne broached one evening as they were cleaning up the night’s dinner. A thick, chunky stew that Alistair was insisted was pie but was entirely unlike any pie Mahariel had eaten. At least whenever Alistair cooked something they ate for days and days and days… Certainly it _should_ spoil but it never did. Which probably meant they were injesting all manner of poisons, but hey, it was already the end of the world, what did it matter?

“Of course,” she replied, suspicious that Wynne had something hidden up her sleeve.

“Oh we’ll take that,” Wynne instructed as Sten rose to wash his bowl. He was surprised (and truthfully a little suspicious) as Wynne took it from him, but the Qunari did not refuse her offer, if it could even be called that. She then collected _everyone else’s_ and soon Mahariel found herself carrying all of them. 

“Help an old woman wash these,” Wynne said as she rose and made her way to the river, never turning back to see if Mahariel followed. Shemlen or Elvhen, mothers were always the same, Mahariel thought sourly.

She followed, naturally, but not before shooting a quizical glance at Leliana. The bard smiled and shrugged her ignorance of the matter. Sighing, Mahariel plodded off, juggling a dozen bowls and spoons.

She was about to be reprimanded for something, she knew it.

“You’re quite taken with each other aren’t you?” Wynne commented as she knelt by the river and pushed her sleeves up over her elbows.

“Oh,” Mahariel swallowed, “It’s nothing.”

“It’s not nothing,” Wynne corrected firmly but gently. “Not for you and not for him--”

“I wouldn’t go that far,” Mahariel interjected, trying to sound flippant. She cast a small smile at Wynne; two girls bonding over boys. That’s what happened right? That’s what they were doing? Though, usually such conversations were between ladies of a smaller age gap, but Mahariel didn’t suppose that was a necessity. 

“There is great potential for tragedy here. For both of you,” Wynne shot Mahariel a knowing glance. In a far gentler tone more becoming of a mother, she added “I do not wish to see him get hurt.”

Mahariel was stunned. Her washing had paused, as she looked at Wynne with a new sense of wonder. She was under the impression that Wynne didn’t much care for Zevran. It made her a little happy knowing the mage thought of him fondly. “Really?”

“Yes. It’s not hard to notice the doe-eyed looks he gives you, especially when he thinks no one’s watching.”

Mahariel was even more surprised. She grinned down at her washing feeling airy and light. Had he been looking at her like that? There was something softer to him that she only found when the others weren’t around. Perhaps she had missed more than she thought.

“Lyna,” Wynne became somber once more, “You are both Grey Wardens, and he is the son of a king.”

“I-- wait, _what?”_

“You have responsibilities that supercede your personal desires,” Wynne continued.

Mahariel was struck to the core; all she could think about was  _‘_ Not this again.’ It wasn’t even about Alistair anymore – or Zevran, or love. Ever since that blasted mirror she’d had everything stripped from her and a new colorless mantle placed upon her shoulders. A mantle she never wanted – still didn’t want. 

Wynne hadn’t yet realized the depth of Mahariel’s thoughts. As the elf scrubbed furiously at the bowl in her hands, Wynne continued, fearing that the young warden would forgo the wisdom Wynne was trying to teach her. Lyna was young – green – it was better she had a reality check now than when it counted and ended up making the wrong decision, for her and for Thedas.

“Love is ultimately selfish. It demands that one be devoted to a single person, who may occupy one's mind and heart to the exclusion of all else. A Grey Warden cannot afford to be selfish. It is not a coat you can cast away at the end of the day. It should involve your every action, your every decision.”

“Look,” Mahariel hissed as she dunked the bowl into the water before tossing it onto the ‘clean’ pile along with the others. She turned to face Wynne, eyes glinting dangerously in the dark. The mage was forced to lean back in order to keep a reasonable distance between her and the young hunter. “I never asked for this. _Any_ of this. I never asked Duncan to rip me from my home and my clan. I never _chose_ to discard my passions, my hopes and plans to be a Grey Warden. In my clan I had a purpose--”

“This is your purpose,” Wynne intoned carefully.

“Don’t tell me what I am or am not, Shemlen,” Mahariel hissed. “I would rather have _died_ than become a Grey Warden. Don’t lecture me on sacred duty. I want none of it.”

Wynne watched, startled and angry as Mahariel spun and stalked off into the forest without another word. Sighing, Wynne sat back on her knees and her shoulders slumped.

So this was who their fates were pinned upon.


	11. Correspondus Interuptus #3

“I call this one,” Zevran blurted, reaching for the letter Morrigan had in her hands. He’d been tipped off to the contents by her groan of disgust moment’s prior.

“Take it,” Morrigan grumbled, letting it slip out of her fingers. “I feel gross just holding it.”

“Oh, it makes _Morrigan_ feel filthy? I must hear this one,” Leliana said.

“What is that supposed to mean?”

“Nothing.”

“Miss Ambrose,” Zevran interrupted, grinning wickedly as he adopted an appropriately pitched cadence to read such drivel. “A long, slow grind, the motion careful,” he said, wiggling his brows at Morrigan.

“Ugh.”

“Aided by generous application of oils. Size is no concern with my equipment-"

Wynne made a disapproving noise from the doorway, having just walked in. She sounded more disappointed than disapproving. Zevran too looked a bit disappointed.

“-and I am always mindful when stuffing – oh, that’s better – not risking a burst before every order is fulfilled. My meat goes hand in hand with satisfaction.”

“Oh, good heavens,” Wynne grumbled.

“Your interest astounds, but it is not mine to question a customer’s choice in nighttime reading. Three pound sausage again next week – what? Oh… _oh._ I am quite disappointed,” Zevran sighed, tossing the letter aside. “It’s from the butcher.”

“You cannot be serious,” Leliana laughed.

“Oh, I am. The man is completely in the dark,” Zevran said, gesturing to the signature.

“Well, that’s depressing,” Mahariel said as they exited the home. Morrigan was last to leave, who clandestinely tucked the letter into her robes.


	12. Vhenallin

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Alistair leaves Goldana's home and finds himself alone - and yet not alone. Never again. And, perhaps, for the first time since finding the Eluvian, neither is Mahariel.

The dusty, dirty streets of Denerim were welcome after the little hovel that belonged to Alistair’s sister. It was just them – Lyna and Alistair. She found it better suited that only they go; there needn’t be an audience to what was effectively a bittersweet family reunion after all. Let the others take care of their enjoyments elsewhere. And it was a good thing, too. Mahariel couldn’t imagine Alistair wishing an audience for that.

He sighed heavily as soon as the door shut behind them, harder than either of them meant. Hard enough that Goldana was cursing their departure. Mahariel shifted uneasily on her feet, unsure of exactly how to proceed.

Alistair had no family to speak of, all his friends were dead… and a future that he admitted he didn’t want. She felt for him, she truly did. But, she was never good with words.

After the silence became unbearable, Alistair shuffled off. Lyna practically skipped to keep up. He slowed, giving her time to catch up with her markedly shorter stature.

“That was not what I expected,” he said, attempting to sound light and trivial. It didn’t work, and he deflated almost as soon as he said it. His pace slowed to a somber shuffle, causing Mahariel to briefly out-pace him.

“I’m sorry,” Mahariel offered lamely. She reached out to pat him awkwardly on one of his pauldrons. The empty thump seemed to make him smile, albiet breifly. “What… were you expecting?” she asked.

“Not this. I...” Alistair shrugged, shook his head and then shrugged again. “I guess I was expecting to accept me without question? Isn't that what a family is supposed to do?”

Mahariel tilted her head to the side. Not really, she thought; but perhaps it was best not to say such things out loud at this point in time. Besides, she really only had the love of her clan, and while that was wonderful, it wasn’t her parents. There was no substitute for it really.

“I feel like a complete idiot,” he grumbled. “I should have known better.”

Lyna realized they were walking in circles, meandering around the market a second time.

“You’re not,” she assured him, then again a second time with more sincerity. “You’re not an idiot. You shouldn’t have known better. Family is… family does do that.”

But it wasn’t… the right thing to say, after all, Lyna noted. Alistair’s shoulder’s dropped, till he was naught but a sagging tree branch weighed down by too much snow. She wasn’t sure what could be done to knock it off, but it sure as the Void would not happen now. Not by her.

“Let's just go,” he mumbled, veering off to the tavern suddenly. Without any other option, Mahariel followed.

Later, after one very lengthy conversation with Leliana in which both received a long overdue haircut, Mahariel had figured out what exactly to say. _Trust the bard to be able to read your feelings better than yourself – and know what to do with them._ Were she not present, Mahariel wouldn’t have been able to make heads or tails of any of this nonsense.

From the little room Leliana had at the inn, Mahariel skipped down to the one Alistair occupied. Hey, they had coin to spare now that Eamon was on their side – why spend the night in a field?

Mahariel knocked thrice. Waited, and then thrice again, only to hear the muffled sound of Alistair surrendering to whoever it was at his door. Left to his own devices, Alistair’s mood seemed to have slowly spiraled downward.

She entered, and closed the door behind her. “Hey.”

“Oh, hey,” Alistair replied, sprawled out on the bed with his feet hanging off the end. He stared up at the ceiling, and rose a hand to lazily wave at Lyna. He was wearing his entire suit of armor still; which could not have been in any way comfortable.

“How are you holding up?”

He turned his head to peer at her, “Oh, I’m fine. I’m actually just about to go dancing in the square. I hear there’s going to be a full band and lots of cheese to eat, too.”

“That bad, huh?”

Mahariel tread across the room as Alistair pulled himself into a sitting position. Vacant space on the bed meant it was prime real estate for her own body. So with the familiarity she showed Leliana, Mahariel plopped down on the bed next to him, much to his surprise.

“About this morning,”

“Before you go on--”

“Nope, my turn,” Mahariel cut him off. “Cause you need to hear this.”

“Why does this sound so ominous?” Alistair whined, looking at her sidelong.

She reached out and pat his shoulder – well, armor. It didn’t feel nearly as sincere as she wanted it to be, but he really left her with no choice. Instead, she focused on the tone of her voice, and her expression. Alistair for his part, stared back a little wide-eyed wondering why the usually dodgy elf was being quite so open with him.

“You’re a friend – well, more than a friend,” She began, breaking eye-contact. She couldn’t quite bring herself to look him in the eye to say this. Emotions were hard – love even more so. “You’re _Vhenallin_ ,”

“I’m what?” Alistair blurted.

“A friend to the people, my people. Me,” Lyna babbled. “Me especially, very important. Very close. Ehmm...” she sighed then swallowed. Nibbling her bottom lip she looked back at his wide-eyed face and said “That’s as close to family as you get.”

“Wait… really?”

“Yes, blood or not. That’s family,” she said. “We’re family.”

Alistair’s expression had turned to one of wonder, all doofy smiles with his eyes a-glitter. It was contagious, this man’s grin, and Lyna found herself giggling with him.

“Wow,” he laughed.

“Yeah,” Mahariel agreed. She paused a moment then retrieved a small cloth pouch from her belt and held it out to him. “Speaking of which, I feel like this is an appropriate moment to give you this.”

“What is it?” Alistair asked, still a little light-headed from finally being apart of a family. He opened it like a man intoxicated. “Is this? This is? My mother’s amulet, where did you find this?” He asked, looking up at Mahariel. The surprises just never ended today.

“Redcliffe Castle – in the study,” she supplied. "I might have, maybe, kind of, stole it? But it's yours, so..."

“What?” Alistair looked down at the amulet in his hands. He turned it over and over, looking at the mended cracks and chips where the pieces couldn’t all be found. There was a strange aching in his heart, but not one that could be considered wholly bad. “Arl Eamon; he must have... found it after I threw it at the wall. He must of repaired it and kept it. I don’t understand why would he do that?”

“I guess he cares for you more than you thought,” Mahariel replied, smiling softly.

Alistair looked bewildered for a moment. “I mean… I guess you could be right?” he mumbled, still staring at the amulet. The way in which he left Eamon was… he couldn’t have ever thought Eamon would still care for him after that. As Maric’s son, sure, but not as Alistair. The feeling was overwhelming and his eyes burned. That wasn’t a good sign.

“I guess I will have to talk to him about this,” he finally said.

He looked up at Lyna with an expression just shy of tears. Happy tears, but tears none the less. “Thank you, Lyna, you are a true friend.”

“Of course. Always, Lethallin,” she replied, smiling despite herself. Smiling despite the growing panic that overcame her. Family… she had a family outside her clan. She had been alone, and now she wasn’t. He had been alone and now he wasn’t.

“I have your back you know that right?”

“And I’ll murder anyone that looks at you funny,” Mahariel assured him.

Alistair whimpered, “You know, I can’t tell if you’re serious or not…”


	13. Feints

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Past me thinks this is finished?   
> Present me thinks I lost the last half.   
> Present me also searched through all my Wips for "The Moment" (TM) that I was thinking this led to.  
> It is is not "The Moment" (TM)...  
> So this must actually be the end I intended for this chapter.   
> Future me probably is going to go "What the fuck, why isn't this finished."
> 
> So here, the beginnings of feelings, or the acknowledgment of feelings, and subsequent ignoring of aforementioned feelings because that's what damaged adults do. All of course, during sword-play, because that's what cool people do.

“Okay,” Mahariel panted, parrying another series of furious blows from Zevran. Sweat poured down her forehead and she had shed a fair bit of her armor leaving only her vambraces and greaves on. Her light linen shift clung to her with perspiration. “Tell me more about the Crows.”

Zevran chuckled, stalking around the other elf. She was too clever to flank outright, and too quick besides. Now she was too suspicious of his feints; she was getting harder to fool. Well, harder than she already was.

His easy circling over her rankled her, however. And she always fought a little more recklessly when she was angry…

Zevran shrugged. “What do you want to know, my dear?” he drawled.

Mahariel squinted at him. Cocksure son of a bitch. But maybe if she kept him talking she could catch him off guard… Creators! How _did_ he have all his armor still on? He did find Ferelden’s cold intolerable, but this was ridiculous. How was he not boiling?

“Well, tell me more about training. Your living arrangements, the food.”

“I’ve already told you these things, my dear Warden,” Zevran chuckled again. _How long until she got dizzy_ , he wondered.

“Yes, like it was the weather,” Mahariel scoffed. “Not the details. The details are what matter.”

Zevran feinted. Mahariel jumped so far backwards it could have been said that she flew. At least this time she didn’t stumble, which meant she didn’t leave herself open this time. She growled back at him, which only made him laugh more.

“The details are what matter,” Zevran echoed thoughtfully. He daggers twirled absently in his hands, though Mahariel knew that attacking him now would result in a few good slices. As unconscious as the activity was, it certainly didn’t mean he would drop the blades if she rushed him. She’d tried that.

“You matter,” Mahariel corrected, surprised by the intensity of her own voice.

Zevran faltered, and then found himself quickly fending off Mahariels daggers: one, two – step – and he was out of harm’s way.

“Tsk, tsk, tsk, my dear. That was a low blow,” he chastised, pointing at her with the point of the blue-runed blade that she’d given him at Ostagar. He couldn’t help the ache in his heart. She’d feinted and he fell for it.

“Maybe,” Mahariel giggled with an easy shrug, mimicking his own mannerisms. “But it _is_ true.

“Tell me of your life Zevran,” she asked again. “I want to know.”

He eyed her suspiciously for a moment, once more twirling a blade in his hand. Finally he smiled and nodded. “Very well, my dear Warden...”

 


	14. Correspondus Interuptus #4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> More ridiculous love-letters found throughout Fereldan. The Warden and her companions air dirty laundry.

“Darling,” Morrigan said, without the flair of the more crude companions. Still, the others were surprised and quite in shock when the witch continued to read of her own volition, even more by the grin the young woman wore. “When next we meet, I would find it agreeable for you to leave your hat on.”

“Oh,” Leliana said, wondering what sort of hat it might be. Both she and Zevran shared a knowing look. 

“And mayhap your boots as well. And trousers. Shirt too.”

Quiet snickering erupted between the two rogues, their fantasies terribly dashed. Morrigan too was snickering.

“I’m confused,” Mahariel muttered under her breath.

“And I shall facilitate said clothed status by locking my door and posting a guard. Duly warned?” Morrigan finished with a laugh. She waved it flippantly as she turned to face the others. “I liked this one.”


	15. Lethallan

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A small thing, possibly to be added words too later.  
> The Temple of Sacred Ashes really hit hard my Mahariel playthrough, in ways that Cousland and Surana didn't.  
> I cannot yet put the meeting to words, but there was a lot of tears and gentle, reassuring head-stroking I'm sure.


	16. The Dalish Gloves

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I give you a break from angst and bring you gifts!  
> This time for Zevran.


	17. Correspondus Interuptus #5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Presented without Comment.

“Oh _gross,”_ Mahariel said, making a face appropriate to the disgust she felt, nose and lips twisted as if she smelled something horrible. 

“What, _what_?” Alistair blurted from across the room. Indeed, everyone’s attention was piqued by now. Even Wynne’s.

“My elfroot,” Mahariel all but grumbled, “The herbalist suggested powdered bronto horn. I was very discrete. Signed: _Your sunflower.”_

“Well, that’s rather tame compared to the others,” Wynne pointed out.

“No, their _pet names_ are what disgust me,” Mahariel said, sticking her tongue out.

“Aw, I thought they were very sweet,” Leliana replied.

“What’s this?” Oghren slurred from the other room. “Someone say they found powdered bronto horn? Good stuff, lemme have it you don’t want it,” he said with a lecherous laugh.

“Oh _gross!”_


	18. Ash and Blood

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Oh, you thought I was done with the angst? Well, you were wrong. Spoilers: Tamlen doesn't just show up at the Temple of Sacred Ashes...

After everything, she had finally found him. After a singular desperate search and the advice of her clan, Keeper and the Grey Wardens she had given up on him. They all had - and all too soon. She had left him - and he came back to her. He came home to her. 

But there was no longer any home for him within her. She had already said goodbye. She had given up on him so long ago. 

_“_ _Do you have any regrets?”_ The Guardian asked. 

Of  _ course  _ she did. 

The magic at the Shemlen Temple had been so real. There before her eyes stood her Tamlen, shifting from foot to foot with restless energy as he so often did.   
  
_ Tamlen, sit still!  _

Her Tamlen with his expressive eyes, bursting with insatiable curiosity.   
  
_Tamlen, don’t touch that._

But she never said that, did she? No, she encouraged him. In that as in all things. If he had an ounce of magic he would have made a fantastic Keeper. And now there was nothing for either of them. In that strange, otherworldly temple she had found him; and then she bid him goodbye. _Remembrance_ she kept hanging next to her parents’ necklace ever since, close to her heart. He would have laughed and mocked her for that shemlen trinket. 

She finally felt free; it was not with him, and it was not with their clan. She had hated the Wardens, and the mirror and fate, if that is what it was. But in saying goodbye she found herself happy to be a Grey Warden. Even happy brushing elbows and sharing meals with shems and dwarves and qunari. 

But wax wings never lasted long…

Staring into the face of the twisted ghoul cowering on the fringes of their camp, Mahariel felt as if a mountain had caved down upon her. Even as her heart threatened to beat out of her chest, she couldn’t find strength enough in her lungs to draw breath. Ashen and trembling, Lyna moved toward the corrupted elf, aware of her companions lurking behind her, with their eyes on the forest waiting for more darkspawn. 

“Lethallan,” Tamlen gurgled as Lyna knelt before him. His eyes were milky white, vacant though he stared directly at her. In her heart, Lyna knew he was already dead. 

“Tamlen,” Lyna murmured, giving into the urge to take him into her arms and hold him. To wish away the paths their lives had taken. 

_It shouldn’t have been him._

“Lyna” Wynne, cautioned, though made no move to break the pair up. Somewhere behind her, Mahariel could feel Alistair looming protectively. 

_It should have been her._

“No,” Tamlen growled. Each syllable sounded strained - as if each word was agony to him. As if the simple act of speech would soon be forgotten entirely. “Lethallan, I don’t want to hurt you. I can feel it; I can feel it in my blood. Like mud.

“It sings to me,” he whispered; agony and wonder evident in his foggy eyes, his scratchy voice.

Lyna’s eyes burned with unshed tears. She leaned back, cupping his boil and pock-marked face in her hands, and looked into his sunken eyes once more. 

“I don’t want to hurt you,” he repeated, wide, white eyes searching for things they could not see. “Please.” 

Everything turned to shades of grey. “No,” Lyna murmured back choking on the syllable. 

“ _Please_ ,” he begged, twisting unnaturally away from her. “ _P_ lea _s_ e, plea _se_ p _l_ e _a_ se,” he repeated, moving away from her. Out of her arms for the final time. 

Time slowed. Mahariel felt as if she swam in sludge. Corruption as thick and choking as Ostagar --

More darkspawn. 

“Ar lath, Tamlen,” Lyna murmured as shadows approached from the forest, screaming for the Wardens. “May Falon’din guide you home.”

Instinct took over. The sound of shrieks, metal clashing and the boom of magic filled the otherwise silent forest. Within minutes, the clearing was quiet again save for the panting of her companions; her own heavy breathing. A dozen more darkspawn littered the camp and Tamlen lay lifeless at her feet. 

If Lyna’s companions said anything afterwards, she didn’t hear it. Once more she knelt before him. Tears carved a path through blood and dirt down her cheeks as she reached to close his eyes. 

_ Lethallan. _

She had blood on her hands. 

“Lyna?” 

Black ooze, filth and slime. Ash in her mouth. And blood - there was so much blood. 

“Lyna,” the voice called again, raising in pitch from worry. She did not stir until she felt the cool pressure of a gauntlet on her shoulder. Mahariel tore her eyes from the twisted ghoul at her feet and looked up into Alistair’s worried eyes. 

“Are you alright?” He asked. He knew the answer already. 

The rest of their companions had drifted away - allowing her space, gathering the corpses to burn them. Leliana and Wynne were watching ther exchange, though Leliana was far better at hiding it. 

Silence. 

Alistair’s voice cracked as he asked for her again, “Lyna, I--”

“I am alright,” she interrupted with a voice like a hollow reed. A beautiful tone but only because the reed was broken. It didn’t sound like her.  She felt like she was in pieces, strewn so far apart from each other that she’d never find them all again. Never put herself back together. 

_ Lethallan.  _

“I am alright,” she repeated firmly. 

He knew better. “He was sick,” he said softly, as Mahariel turned to the dead elf. At one point, Alistair thought, he must have been very handsome. Now he was nothing but a corrupted twisted creature. He could not imagine… “What you did was a mercy.” He said lamely. It wouldn’t matter. Mercy, honor, sacrifice… they were still dead. Cailan, Duncan, this boy - Alistair knew better. He knew death, and he knew how it ached. 

“Thank you,” she said replied. “Will you help me?”

“Of course,” Alistair replied, and quickly stooped to take the elf by his shoulders. Mahariel was thankful for Alistair - he was gentle, as if Tamlen yet lived and was merely sleeping. He knew. It was very sweet of him, she supposed. For all his faults, for all hers, she was thankful that he was with her. 

Together, they brought Tamlen to the pyre that the others had erected with the other darkspawn. It felt wrong to burn him.  It was so close to how Shems treated their dead - so far from their ways. Tamlen would have hated such a fate. But there was no helping it. One couldn’t bury darkspawn filth and hope the earth would survive it. 

She roughly wiped at her eyes. She would survive this. She would not cry. 

Wynne’s eyes were trained on her, even as Morrigan lit the pyre. Leliana watched too - and Sten. They were worried - searching for weakness. Was this the final straw? What would happen to their leader now? Creator’s she must have her emotions written on her face as clear as day for them to all look at her like this. They watched her a moment, as she watched the flames, before each companion returned to their separate duties and occupations. It would be a sober, nervous night. The darkspawn had found them - what else could happen now? 

Mahariel moved toward the forest. 

“Lyna?” Alistair called, his armor creaking as he fidgeted. 

“I wish to be alone, please.”

“And if the darkspawn come again?” Sten demanded, listening in from afar. They all were. 

Mahariel suddenly felt suffocated. “I will know. They will not attack again tonight.” 

And if they did?  _ That  _ would be the mercy.


	19. Let the River Take Me

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mahariel seeks comfort in the loneliness of a nearby river, while Alistair debates how to rescue her from herself.
> 
> TW: Suicide

Alistair stood by the burning corpses and watched helplessly as Mahariel trudged into the forest. He wanted to take her in his arms and tell her everything was going to be alright. Wish away the hurt and fix the broken pieces of her. Tell her she wasn’t alone. But, he couldn’t do any of these things. Maker, he felt like he was stuck at the bottom of a pit unable to crawl up. Unable even to see the sky far far above. 

He couldn’t even sneak after her like some silent guardian. Protecting her from harm so she never had to deal with it. For one thing he was too big to sneak, for another you couldn’t just sneak after a Dalish elf in their own damned territory. Spying therefore was out of the question. 

But maybe only for him…

“Maker,” Alistair breathed as he stomped back toward the campfire. He closed the distance between him and a certain elvhen assassin with long angry strides. 

Lyna trusted _him_ unquestionably. Foolishly, maybe. And what’s more, they got along  _ splendidly.  _ She relied on Zevran in a way that she nerver would him. And Alistair knew that. Hated it, but knew she wasn’t to be left alone tonight. She may not be  _ his  _ \- there was no future for them together but she deserved to be happy. He wanted her to be happy - even if it wasn’t with him. 

“Zevran,” he began, squatting down next to the usually talkative elf in order to conduct their conversation as quietly as possible. 

“Yes my friend? How is she?” Zevran asked. 

“Off alone--”

“So she said,” Zevran quipped. There was no passion or heat. Of course he wanted to follow. But she said ‘no’ and he quite preferred to honor another’s wishes, even if they went against his own. “She is quite capable of defending herself,” he continued, “I should know.”

“And if she doesn’t want to?” Alistair whispered.

Zevran became as still as the grave. “I see,” was all that the elf said. His lips thinned and he stared into the fire. 

“Please follow her,” Alistair pleaded, even as Zevran was collecting himself to go after her. “Make sure she gets back safe.” 

“I will, my friend.” Zevran said, affectionately patting Alistair on the shoulder before he strolled off into the night, kicking stones as he went. 

Alistair plopped down in the vacant seat with a sigh and a groan. Once again, he was left to fidget and watch the embers alone. 

⇼

_ Do you have any regrets? _

Mahariel stopped at the river’s edge, watching the cool water lap at her toes. Her resolve solidified during the walk from the camp. She knew what she wanted. She knew what was left for her. Slowly, she began to peel off the layers of filthy clothing, blood and slime and ash.

_ Blood. So much blood.  _

She let her leggings, her shift, her armor… everything drop to the sandy bank. Let them believe she went to bathe. Let them believe she waded too far - got swept away by accident. That it was a tragedy, but it couldn’t be helped. It was easier that way. 

Wading into the river, Mahariel determined not to look back. No clan to protect, nothing to lose, no politicking, no king and country and Blight. Not a hero. Not a savior. Free. 

Mahariel disappeared into the water. 

Zevran halted at the bank of the river, analyzing the clothes, strewn haphazardly around. Mahariel usually folded her things, he noted. Brows furrowed, he looked out at the fading ripples in the water and held his breath. 

He watched the bubbles slowly fade, and felt his chest tighten - then he became truly concerned. Mahariel hadn’t surfaced. When the bubbles disappeared entirely, Zevran made short work of stripping off his boots and tunic.

He was about halfway pulling it over his head when Mahariel resurfaced, gasping and coughing wildly. A wave of relief washed over him as he tossed his tunic over the branch of a nearby tree. She wiped the water from her eyes and caught her breath.

“You know, my dear,” he drawled from the river’s edge, “It is rather difficult to drown oneself. There are easier ways to commit suicide.”

“I wasn’t--” Mahariel quickly replied, spinning around in surprise to face her intruder. She hadn’t known he was there. 

“One doesn’t rinse for more than a minute,” he pointed out. 

“You counted?” She asked weakly, dipping her chin under the water in shame. Her eyes stared down at the ripples forming around her. Her reflection was abhorrent to her. 

“Approximately,” Zevran said, pulling off his breeches. 

“Are you joining me?”

“Why not? We are alone.”

“Zevran, I--”

“I know,” he hushed her as he waded into the water after her. “What was his name?” he inquired gently, wiping a bead of water from her brow. 

Mahariel hesitated, weighing her options; the pros the cons. Finally she swallowed and said “Tamlen.” 

“He was the one that greeted you in the Temple of Sacred Ashes, no?” Zevran found her hands in the water and placed them on his shoulders. Frowning, he then lifted her chin, forcing her to look somewhere other than her own reflection. 

He watched her expression soften, then grow pained. He was surprised how much it broke his own heart to see her so distraught. It scared him. 

“Yes.”

“You loved him,” Zevran stated. There was no judgement, but Mahariel still didn’t answer. “Your body changed when you saw him. You looked as if you could conquer the world; and now you wilt like a little flower without the sun.”

Mahariel watched Zevran carefully - those kind eyes. Such eyes didn’t become an assassin - they were too similar to her own. Full of pain.

“ _Do you have any regrets?”_

“ _Of course I do.”_ Zevran had cut the Spirit of the Gauntlet off before he could even finish his inquiry. 

Trembling, Mahariel leaned forward and kissed him, enveloping him in her arms and pulling him close. 

But he was not as pliant as before. She pulled back, releasing him from her embrace immediately. “I’m sorry,” she mumbled, “I should not take my grief out on you.”

Once again, Zevran found himself surprised - and more than a little guilty. Once again he reached for her and drew her into his arms again. 

“I am yours,” he assured her. Through grief and loss and bloodshed. For as long as she’d have him. 

And there they remained, until they were both too tired to crawl back to their tents. 


	20. Daggers

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I adore stories in which the protagonist, or other such person, in a stress-filled, battlefield with horrific creatures all surrounding them never being the same again. Slowly losing their mind to the shadows. 
> 
> This is one such excerpt.

The nightmares grew ever worse with each passing day. She woke sweat-soaked and panting more often than she did not. Her eyes were hollow, sunken with sleeplessness. And although the elvhen assassin did everything in his power to relax her, to calm her, she never felt safe.

She was grateful for him, and often said as much. But the nightmares –  that was a Warden’s curse. There were things that even love could not fix. There were things bigger than themselves. Stronger. Most nights she lay awake, stroking the ink on Zevran’s cheek, the lines that his tattoos traced all down his body. She slept worse. He slept better.

She was envious. And she was also pleased that he could find solace in her presence. She hadn’t realized he’d slept so fitfully until they shared their bed. Soon enough his tossing and turning had lessened. Mahariel smiled softly to herself, gazing at his sleeping face; peaceful expression. Her safe harbor, even as the archdemon threatened their lives.

Before she knew it, she too, had drifted off to sleep.

But just as always, it didn’t last long.

A great black cloud swirled above her head, sickly purple and green; the color of old bruises. The color of the blight of tainted flesh. The smell assaulting her nostrils was acrid and sweet all at once. Sulfer and dried blood.

A blurred figure stalked her to her right. Turning she saw but a blurred face – but she recognized it. It became clearer and clearer as it neared her – haltingly, slowly, as if it didn’t have full command of it’s faculties. It possessed a twisted spine and a faint twitching motion not unlike the bobbing head of a bird of prey.

Crystal clear eyes glinted at the darkness and the creature groaned with a voice like a toad.

“Lethallan,” the sallow face whispered, reaching for her. “Lethallan, lethallan,” it repeated. The creature's slow gate quickened, Tamlen lurching for her. Reaching clawing. Screeching.

The screech became a howl. A Roar and suddenly the Archdemon was upon her, clawing her body open. Scorching the land. Spreading it’s black filth--

With a yelp Mahariel was awake, drenched with sweat and shivering. Tender, calloused hands touched her back and she spun in fright, reaching for the dagger under their pillows. Zevran’s eyes glinted back at her with understanding.

“It is me, Lyna,” he whispered over the point of a dagger. His long fingers curled around hers, coaxing the dagger from her hand as she broke down with a ragged choking sob.

It was the last time they would sleep with a blade within reach.


	21. The Truth Behind the Lie

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> As Mahariel conducts more business with the Crow contacts in Fereldan, she begins to wonder what Zevran isn't telling her about his own involvement in the guild. 
> 
> The layers of lies are chipped at... coming ever closer to discovering the hidden parts of Zevran's past.

“So precisely how much _were_ the Crows paid for me?” Mahariel asked as they strolled down the back halls of the Gnawed Noble. She’d jumped through a significant amount of hoops to get the Crows off her back, and was well-acquainted with the considerable amount of gold that traveled in and out of their coffers for their work.

What Zevran had said about the whole affair just… didn’t add up right. In his own words he was “poor as a Chantry mouse.” Mahariel found that very difficult to believe. Crows bid for the jobs they took – how much would be tithed back to the organization after the deed was done? How much was kept by the assassin? By the simple fact she was a Warden meant that the number was high – and he was the only bidder, or so he said. He could have offered the Crows anything or nothing – but it was he who walked away with nothing.

She needed to know why.

Zevran was looking at her side-long, “And here I thought you were immune to flattery, my dear Warden.”

“Can you blame a girl?” Mahariel jested. “I want to know how hard of a mark I was. Well, am.” She shrugged.

“I wonder how much else is on your mind,” Zevran replied.

He was far too perceptive. She was far too poor a liar. Her brain worked hard enough to billow smoke out of her ears and yet she came up with nothing. No answer was appropriately vague enough. Mental subterfuge was not her forte, and so she settled for truth.

“How much did you keep? Compared to your bid?”

“Not much,” Zevran said. “Hence why I am here beside you, is it not?”

“Is it?” Mahariel echoed, stopping in the hallway. She could see the others waiting impatiently for them in the common room to return from their errand. “How much did you bid?”

Zevran shifted uncomfortably. He debated telling her here and now. Telling her everything. He sighed, glancing behind her at the Crow’s room.

“Lyna, ah, before I came to Ferelden, I--” he fell silent, looking at her open inquisitive expression. “No,” he murmured, turning his gaze to his boots. “Another time.”

“Okay,” Mahariel agreed.

The answer was hard, then. Something he did not want to admit. Something he may never admit. In the end, Mahariel was content not knowing the truth behind the lies this time.

“Thank you, Lyna,” Zevran replied, pleasantly surprised that she had agreed so readily. He gazed at her in wonder, before shaking himself out of the reverie he found himself in. He turned back to continue down the hall into the tavern’s main room.

Mahariel stopped him; wrapping her strong fingers around his wrist.

“Wait,” she asked.

Dreading a change of mind, he turned back to face her. But instead of more questions, or demands or anything of the sort, Zevran received a fierce but strangely gentle kiss. Her fingers slid down his hand to knit with his own while her other hand tangled in his hair to keep him close.

She grinned as she pulled away. “Okay, now I’m ready. You’re just too damn handsome.”

He laughed. “Tonight?” he asked in a hoarse whisper.

“Tonight,” she agreed, squeezing his hand.


	22. Correspondus Interuptus #6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Presented without comment.

“Oh! Lyna,” Leliana said practically skipping over to the young elf. She placed the letter down atop the chest the hunter was trying to pick. “What do you see in this one?”

Mahariel scanned it curiously, lips moving as she read.

“Well, don’t keep it to yourself,” Morrigan chastised.

Sighing, Mahariel shot Morrigan a half-hearted glare before clearing her throat:

“Donogan, On pain of death, you are Now warned! My father found The letters you previously Sent, and is watching as I write To tell you our relations are Over! We must remain chaste. Signed: _Patricia.”_

Then, Mahariel giggled. “Don’t stop.”

“Good work!” Leliana approved before skipping back off to her previous task. “You’ll be subtle as a snake soon enough.”

“Ha, when nugs fly,” Mahariel laughed. '"That one wasn't hard." 


	23. The Grass is Always Greener

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A quiet moment of fluff between Zev and Maha

“You wanted to be a brother?” Mahariel asked in the safety of night. Her head rest on Zevran’s shoulder – and both reveled in the warmth of each other. Her fingers traced tiny circles on his bare chest, a feeling he once found quite ticklish, though had since gotten used to it.

“For a time, yes. When I was very, very young,” he murmured, half-taken with sleep.

“Why?”

Zevrann chuckled at her disdain. “Oh, many reasons,” he replied noncommittally. “Well, one reason, ah-” he paused, opening his eyes to search the tent’s roof for answers. Or maybe bravery. “I grew up in a whorehouse – ah… the grass is always greener on the other side, as they say.”

Mahariel knew enough about him and enough about the world to connect the dots. She nodded her understanding, and kissed his shoulder before snuggling back up against him.

Smiling crookedly to himself, Zevran held her tighter to him and closed his eyes.


	24. The Details That Matter

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mahariel once again probes into Zevran's past trying to uncover the details that make the assassin who he is. 
> 
> Though the discussion leads to a confession Zevran never thought he would utter.

****“Zevran, when you say ‘only Taliesin and I survived’ what… what does that mean, _exactly?”_ Mahariel asked one night as they sat near a small mountain stream that fed Lake Calenhad. After what felt like years in the Deep Roads, they needed to feel clean, even if it meant bathing in frigid water.

Zevran eyed her from the rock he was perched upon. The water was far too cold to submerge himself as Mahariel did. He couldn’t understand how she did it. Baths – water – should be  _warm._

“Only Taliesin and I survived, because everyone else had _died,”_ Zevran replied humorlessly. He run out his wash rag, grimacing as the water turned deep red before dispersing in the current. 

Mahariel frowned, blowing  exasperated bubbles into the water. “No,” she gurgled, “like – what did they do to you? Them?”

Zevran was quiet. _It was the details that mattered_ …

“You don’t have to answer,” she amended, reading his expression. She reached out to carress his calf. With a hiss he jerked his leg away from her. 

“Your fingers are like ice!” he exclaimed. “Get out of the water before you freeze,” he demanded.

“I’m fine,” Mahariel giggled.

“Out,” he repeated firmly. Maker she was insufferable sometimes.

“Okay, okay,” she relented with a soft snort. He grumbled further as she splashed him with tiny drops as she passed. “I’m out. Happy?”

“Mhm,” he sighed.

“Oh,” Mahariel took a knee behind him, curling up behind him on the boulder. “You missed a spot, on your back,” she pointed out. Lyna extended a hand for the wash rag, which she gloomily supplied.

“Cold,” she warned, before pressing it to his skin. Zevran twitched and sucked in a breath but withstood her tender – if utterly freezing – ministrations.

“Your hair is a mess, too.” She gazed at the tangle of knots and grime – there was only so much he could do without submerging himself completely.

Zevran joked, “Perhaps I should cut it all off. Would make maintenance easier.”

Mahariel shook her head as she ran her fingers through the knots. “ One bald elf already throws the shems. Two bald elves would give them a conniption . Though, if you really wish it…”  she trailed off. There was very little he could do or suffer that would negate her attraction for him.

Contentedly he closed his eyes. They sat in silence for a long time. Her coaxing him to withstand the cold in order to achieve the cleanliness they desired and deserved. She was finished combing his hair by the time either of them spoke again. 

“Your shoulders are tense,” she said, rolling her hands over the taut muscles. “I’ve not the skill you do,” she supplied, “but do you want me to try?”

“I’d like that,” Zevran said. He cleared his throat – his voice was thick, hoarse. Maker have mercy, Mahariel said nothing. And he was grateful for that.

At last, as he relaxed into her soothing hands, Zevran finally answered her question. “They either failed their missions and perished by their marks’ hands. Or failed and returned to the Crows to perish by their hands. Those that deserted were given… the ‘appropriate execution.’”

Mahariel shuddered, she didn’t want to think what ‘appropriate execution’ meant in Antivan terms. There was nothing in Dalish laws that demanded that, or rather, very little that demanded execution. Exile was far more prevalent punishment, and usually a more effective deterrent.

Unbeknownst to Mahariel, Zevran’s expression had twisted into that of agony. He had the ability to distance himself – harden himself – from the horrors of his past, his life. It made him able to speak of it flippantly, easily. It wasn’t him, so it didn’t hurt. But now, with Mahariel’s comforting presence at his back wanting him, wanting to _know_ him, talking became so much harder. He was vulnerable, and he knew it. And he didn’t like it. This was wrong. He felt like he was crumbling, like dry earth under the weight of a monsoon.

With a deep breath – taken as slowly as he could manage so as not to alert Mahariel – he steadied himself. “That was those who passed training..." he fell silent once again. His tongue was like lead in his mouth. Too dry, too heavy. He found himself unable to speak. She could never _truly_ understand the horrors of it all. Not like Rinna. A piece of him mourned the loss of that camaraderie, but, Zevran told himself, Lyna knew the frustration of not having a choice, and that was enough.

“Zevran,” Mahariel whispered behind him, teasing his shoulders with her fingers. He had drifted off. His eyes felt dry – and when he glanced back, his lover wore a worried expression on her face.

Lyna smiled and nuzzled his cheek. She knew enough that these details she may never know. Wrapping him in her arms, she pulled him back against her chest and held him close. “I am sorry,” she whispered into his hair. “Don’t.”

Zevran swallowed. His heart thud in his chest like a trapped animal, clawing to get out. Folding his hands over hers, he relaxed into her warmth and breathed. “It is fine, Amore,” he whispered back, and closed his eyes.

They were quiet again for a long time. When she finally felt his heartbeat settle back into a comfortable rhythm, she nuzzled his hair again, and asked another question. “Zevran? What does ‘ _amore_ ’ mean?”

_...Merda._


	25. Correspondus Interuptus #7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> If you think you can skip reading this and not further the plot you are wrong.   
> Still fluff tho.

“I found another letter today,” Mahariel said crawling under the furs next to Zevran that night.

“And you didn’t read it for us! My dear Warden--”

Mahariel shushed him with a finger on his lips. He quite happily complied to her gentle demand, gazing up at her adoringly, humming with good humor.

“I uh… didn’t think I could read it in front of the others...” Mahariel began, looking down and away front him with a too-wide grin, “without uh… uhm, looking… at you?”

“Ah,” he chuckled, “you did not want to embarrass yourself by so flagrantly flaunting your _lust_ for me.”

“Like they don’t already know,” she giggled, “but yeah.”

“We are alone now,” he offered, raising his brows expectantly. Giggling she reached over his body and snatched the letter from out of her pack.

She spoke barely above a whisper so as to keep her throaty tone from being overheard by outside ears. “You are filthy! A beast! Such depravity I have never been forced to suffer! How words are so laden when they leave your lips they are beyond decent imagining! Madam, I love you,” Mahariel coughed. Clearing her throat, she finished. “Signed: _Ser Augold.”_

Zevran’s breath caught. _Oh dear._

Mahariel shook her head, “You’re insufferable,” she explained lamely.

“Mmm, have I ever told you the worst poetry I ever heard?”

Lyna laughed, “No?”

Zevran grinned wickedly and wrapped his arms around her shoulders, pulling her against him. “The first time I heard it...”


	26. Deepest Regrets

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Guardian of the Gauntlet haunted Mahariel for weeks after stepping foot within the Temple. But she is not the only one he haunts; Zevran too cannot get the spirit out of his mind; he must come clean about his past at last.

_Many have died at your hand. But is there any that you regret more than a woman by the name of--_

Zevran frowned at the small white daisy he spun in his hand. The last flower before winter; he had found it on the road just outside Denerim, and naturally when presented with something beautiful and rare, he killed it.

He had done it for a purpose, naturally. Just that purpose had yet to finish her meeting with Eamon and the queen. The door had opened once in the last two hours – and it had been by a sheepish looking Alistair trying to sneak out. He had been swiftly recalled. The room had been silent ever since – and the castle was all but asleep.

Zevran waited patiently sitting on the edge of the bed that Eamon had provided for Mahariel, worrying the flower into a wilted shadow of what it had been. Some sort of sick pleasure was derived in watching it the stem slowly bruise as he twisted it over and over in his hand. Yet in the end, he reminded himself why he picked it in the first place, and pinched the damaged part of the stem off with his fingernails and placed it in water. There he left it to regain its vibrancy.

“You’re not usually so sentimental,” Lyna said from the doorway, her voice soft with exhaustion. She leaned on the doorway, head resting on the jam and smiled at the assassin.

He shrugged, spreading his arms to either side. They both knew that was not the case. He was as sentimental as Sten, and just as good at hiding it.

“How was the meeting?”

“Long, tiresome, and for some ridiculous reason I find myself deciding the fate of Ferelden, in practice, not just theory this time.” Lyna grumbled as she shut the door behind her. Without hesitation her armor and clothing was tossed to the floor without ceremony or care for its well-being. Honestly it was a miracle it wasn’t more dented than it was.

“Here I thought that Wardens didn’t get involved in politics,” she finished, flopping into the furs of the bed naked as the day she was born. “Lucky me.”

Zevran couldn’t help but chuckle as he pulled the great bear hide out from under her. Dutifully she rolled to the side to allow him the covering. He too had shed his clothing – though he had folded his with care and placed them at the great oak chest at the foot of the bed. Together, they snuggled under the furs and tried to wish away the stress and the anxiety their lives had gathered.

“Lyna, may I confess something to you?” Zevran broached, watching the fire crackling in the hearth. Lyna didn’t even open her eyes, simply squeezed his ribs and nodded.

“There is a reason I accepted this mission in Ferelden, far away from home and it had nothing to do with any thought that I might leave the Crows.”

At that, Lyna’s eyes opened. When she tilted her head to look at the face of her lover, Zevran was staring at the fire with a pensive look on his face. His breathing had become erratic, she noted – half holding his breath and half panting. Mahariel allowed him the space to think; she did not interrupt.

“Meeting you, after all, was quite an accident,” he said, glancing at her with the shadow of a smile. The brief moment of eye-contact was quickly broken – he could hardly bear to look at her. “My last mission before this did not end well…

"You must realize that before that day I was cocky and arrogant,” he could barely spare a chuckle, even as Mahariel tried to bite back a giggle. “More than I already am, yes… I was the best Crow in Antiva, I believed. I bragged of my conquests often, both as an assassin and lover. I was often told I was insuffereable.”

“Right before you ended up in bed with them?” Mahariel interrupted. She kissed his shoulder, befre sitting up next to him. She felt odd laying next to him as he spoke of this. This was important – not something to be said lightly while snuggled under a bear hide. Noticing his hair had fallen into his eyes, she brushed back. “Sorry,”

“No you are right,” he said, turning his gaze to look up at her. He too felt wrong lounging in her bed as he spoke of it. But while Mahariel remained close, he moved away, swinging his legs over the side of the bed to sit upright.

“One of the Crow Masters grew tired of my boasting. My bid for an incredibly difficult mark was accepted, much to my surprise. A wealthy merchant with many guards and completely silent.

Taliesin agreed to be part of my team, as well as an elvhen lass named Rinna. She was… a marvel. Tough, smooth, wicked. Eyes that gleamed like justice. Everything I thought I desired. Rinna was special, I had closed off my heart, I thought, but she touched something within me.”

Mahariel watched as Zevran seemed to fade into the past. This Rinna… she thought someone like her might have been lurking on the edges of his mind – something hard to talk about. There was a strange understanding to him the night that Tamlen died. He knew. And now, so did she. Yet, Mahariel was not jealous. After all, Tamlen lurked on the edges of her mind as Rinna seemed to haunt Zevran. People like that… people you truly loved never really went away. No matter what happened.

“It frightened me,” Zevran admitted. His brows furrowed and he fell silent for a moment. Mahariel, dared to reach out and gently touch his shoulder. When he leaned into her hand – almost imperceptably, Mahariel took the invitation to sit beside him close enough their thighs touched.

He took a breath; and sighed swift and full-chested, almost a laugh. Just as he had helped her when her lover died, so she would when his did. How strange their two souls were so different yet so similar. Zevran welcomed Mahariel’s silent strength and affection, and returned it simply with a hand on her knee.

“When Taelisen revealed to me that Rinna had accepted a bribe from the merchant, told him of our plan, I readily agreed that she needed to pay the price and... allowed Taliesin to kill her. Rinna begged me not to on her knees with tears in her eyes. She told me that she loved me and had not betrayed us. I laughed in her face and said that even if it were true, I didn’t care.

“But it wasn’t true. I believed that it was. Taliesin cut her throat and I watched her bleed as she stared up at me. I spat on her for betraying the Crows. When Taliesin and I finally assassinated the merchant we found the true source of his information. Rinna had not betrayed us after all.”

It was Mahariel’s turn to stare at the fire. All the things that she expected Zevran to say did not include this story. He was not speaking lightly when he said he needed to confess something. Yet Mahariel stayed her opinions – horror, more accurately. Zevran didn’t look at her – she really was shit at hiding her emotions and thoughts.

Even still, prepared for the revulsion he was so certain would simply increase and break them apart, Zevran continued. He had to. He wanted to. “I wanted to tell the Crows what we had done. Our mistake. Taliesin convinced me not to. He said it would be a foolish waste. So we reported that Rinna had died in the attempt.

“We needn’t have bothered. The Crows knew what we had done. The Master who disliked me told me so to my face. He said the Crows knew… and they didn’t care. And one day my turn would come.” And one day, Zevran was sure that it would. It was by chance and miracle it hadn’t yet come at the hand of Mahariel. But once day… one day he’d pay the price for his mistakes.

She had yet to say anything, so Zevran powered on. But he could not do it by her side. Once again, he moved away from her and into the chill of the late autumn air. Even with the fires lit in every room it was hard to chase out the cold. Now he welcomed it as he once welcomed Mahariel’s blade.

“You once asked why I wanted to leave the Crows. In truth, what I wanted was to die. What better way than to throw myself at one of the fabled Grey Wardens?” He laughed, somewhat bitterly.

Mahariel looked up, surprised and shocked. All at once she remembered her own thoughts on such a matter. Her own attempt – and who was there for her? Now she knew that he understood her better than any soul in this city. Perhaps Thedas.

“Do you still want to die?” She asked quietly.

“No,” Zevran replied, with more heat than he expected. More passion than what Mahariel expected. “What I want is to begin again. Whatever it is I sought by leaving Antiva, I think I have found it… I owe you a great deal.”

Mahariel watched perched on the bed, as Zevran turned to face her. Back-lit by the fire, Zevran looked both beautiful and terrifying. He eyes glittered in the darkness, both from the benefit of being an elf, and from unshed tears. His weight shifted from one foot to another as he admitted, “I owe you a great deal.”

“Your life, or so you once said,” Mahariel murmured back.

“Yes,” he replied, swallowing hard. She had not yet welcomed him back. It was an acceptable outcome – not desired, but he would not press. Would not demand. He never forced upon another his desires, he never forced them to do or accept anything regardless of what it was. That still held true.

He was about to move to collect his things and leave, when Mahariel extended her arms toward him, beckoning him back to the bed. He halted, confused by the opportunity he was being presented.

Sensing his torment, Mahariel smiled softly and said, “I am glad you are with me.”

Zevran felt his heart break and curiously found that it was not an unpleasant sensation. Tears still wet his eyes, though he never allowed them to fall, as he rejoined Mahariel in bed.

While they both slept fitfully that night, each was overjoyed to wake to find the other still beside them the next morning.


	27. Admittance

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mahariel seeks Wynne out; once they disagreed on her role as a Warden, her life, her fate.   
> Now it's time to admit the truth. Mahariel has a duty, and it's time she accepted that.

The next morning, Mahariel paced through her quarters as Zevran read poetry stolent from the shelves in the study. He had yet to dress himself, and instead sat in front of the fire with nothing but the bear hide draped over his lap. Her incessant worrying never seemed to bother him. Apparently, after living in a cramped whorehouse and even more cramped Crow dormitory, he had become a master of tuning other people out.

Until of course the other person kissed him on the cheek. A lazy smile parted his lips, as Mahariel scratched his head with her fingers.

“I can’t stay here anymore, I’m too nervous.”

“Would you like company?” He drawled, licking his thumb to flip the page.

“No, I’m just… going to go find Wynne,” Mahariel said, leaving his side to shove her feet into a pair of boots. She was only slightly more presentable than the servants considered Morrigan. Between the two of them, the gentile household was scandalized by how much bare flesh was flaunted under their roof.

Zevran made a rueful sound similar to a laugh. “Going to torment the old woman, mm?”

“Essentially,” Mahariel grumbled. “I’ll be back – I want a moment alone with you before we go to the Landsmeet. Stay here.”

“Exactly as I am?” he asked with a wicked grin.

Mahariel returned his smile. “Yes. _Exactly_ like that.” She blew a kiss at him before slipping out of the door. A servant gasped as she spied Zevran behind Mahariel just before the door shut and blushed as Zevran winked. 

The dalish elf leaned close to the young woman and grumbled “Mine. Now shoo.” The servant was happy to flee. Once that was settled, Mahariel skipped down the steps to find Wynne.

The old woman was just leaving Shale and Leliana’s company as Lyna suddenly appeared, nearly bowling the woman over as she came around the corner.

“Warden,” Wynne greeted, as she steadied herself against the wall and Mahariel held her shoulders, as if the diminutive elf could prevent the mage from toppling over.

“Can I have a word with you?”

“What’s on your mind?”

“Food, let’s go,” Mahariel replied as she drug Wynne down to the kitchens. The staff was rather annoyed as the two women helped themselves to bread and fruit – Mahariel in particular, who missed breakfast in favor of staying in _bed._ The elf merely smiled and thanked them through hollow smiles before dragging Wynne back to the great dining hall. 

“I have been thinking of some of the things that you said to me,” the elf began before biting into an apple. She continued, even while chewing it absently. “About being a Grey Warden, and duty.”

“Yes?” Wynne asked, eating her snack with far more decorum than the Grey Warden sitting next to her. 

“You’re right,” Mahariel said. “At least about the whole duty to a higher cause thing – not Zevran. Or… Alistair for that matter,” Mahariel said, waving the apple accusingly at Wynne.

The mage nodded, she had since changed her mind about the Warden’s love interests, though that was a topic for another time, she thought. Mahariel stared at a brown spot in the apple, and resisted the urge to carve the bruised piece out of the skin. It was not inherently bad, she told herself. Still she couldn’t bring herself to eat it.

“I… I was chosen, I think. For whatever reason,” she murmured.

Wynne nodded. “You survived the Joining when others did not. Perhaps it was meant to be,” Wynne affirmed. Then the older woman asked, “Do you mind if I ask what you did to become a Grey Warden? I still do not know-”

“I do mind,” Mahariel cut her short, perhaps a little harsher than she meant to.

“Oh… I’m sorry I brought it up,” Wynne replied.

“It’s okay… My point is,” Mahariel said, putting the apple away for good and trying not to let Wynne know that she had no intention of finishing it, “that a Grey Warden is a guardian of men. I didn’t see that before – that it extends so far.

“In a Dalish clan, you’re not so much an individual as a sh- as you are in your society. Everything you do affects the clan. You are a unit, a family and you have to put aside some of what you want in order to protect your kinsman.

“I didn’t see the similarity in being a Warden,” Mahariel admitted. “I do now.”

Wynne smiled softly back at Mahariel and nodded. “You are a single drop of water in a clear still pond,” the mage added, giving an image to the words that Mahariel had said. The elf always did understand metaphor with a unique clarity. She smiled softly back at Wynne as the mage continued. “A drop causes ripples-”

“And the ripples spread.”

“Precisely.”

“Sometimes,” Mahariel admitted, “I wish i could go back to my old life.”

“It has shaped who you are, but you have become something greater,” Wynne affirmed, gently covering Mahariel’s hand with her own. They were soft from easy years in the Circle, compared with the weathered rough skin of the elf. “It… may not mean much to you, but thank you. For having the courage to continue to fight.”

Mahariel looked up at the mage with a strange feeling of vulnerability. Wynne knew far more about Mahariel than she ever let on. Yet she remained by the elf’s side, build her, support her.

“You have given me hope,” Wynne said.

Mahariel felt her eyes burn with unshed tears. Swallowing hard, she nodded.


	28. The Resuce

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I forgot I was adding transcripts to the end. Apologies.
> 
> Maha: Zevran! You came for us!  
> Zevran: Of course, Amore!  
> Assanris: Boof!


	29. Focus

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> As their relationship progresses, Mahariel begins to doubt and fear the trajectory of their romance. She seeks outside help, who encourage her to speak with Zevran personally.

Mahariel felt more than a little guilty. Here they were trying to save all of Thedas from the Blight – not to mention the near continuous politicking that they were mired in. Mahariel has kept a tally of all that: it was in the double digits now, all of things she wasn’t supposed to involve herself with thanks to being a Grey Warden. Funny how someone always manages to find a reason for you to take out their trash.

She wasn’t even getting paid.

Be that as it may, these were petty concerns compared to the all encompassing infatuation turned anxiety that had enveloped her life: Zevran was acting  _ weird.  _ And she couldn’t place the source of his new behavior.

Just a week ago, they were tangled about each other as often as possible sexually or otherwise to the point that Wynne seemed to have  _ given up  _ trying to convince her that their dalliance was a bad idea and Sten’s discontented rumbles quieted to a dull roar. Now they were distant and had hardly spoke outside what was strictly necessary.

Maybe he needed space, Mahariel thought. So she allowed him space. For three full days she left him in peace, and by night came every time her anxiety doubled. Now every muscle was tense like a cat ready to pounce (a humorous irony that was not lost on her) and her innards felt like they had been pulled out of her body, dipped in sludge and then knotted several times before being stuffed haphazardly back into the empty cavity.

She was  _ not  _ fond of this feeling.

The catalyst for this unusual change, she’d traced back to being tossed in jail for “treasonous crimes against Her Majesty.” Which technically speaking only counted for Alistair, as although her clan lived on Fereldan lands, they were  _ not  _ Fereldan and therefore not subject to their laws. Technically.

While they pondered how to break themselves out without exiling the Grey Wardens from Fereldan a  _ second  _ time her faithful mabari had bounded up to the jail cell with a faithful Zevran in tow, grinning in his cock-sure manner as he jangled jailer’s keys before their eyes. It was just after then, after he threatened Anora with a surplus of nasty punishments (to only Lyna of course) for her betrayal, that he suddenly withdrew.

She wondered perhaps if he was offended. Naturally, she quickly crossed that option out. Zevran was always quite quick to explain away offenses, and apologize if it was more misunderstanding. She couldn’t imagine he wouldn’t tell someone when they had offended him. She found it equally unlikely that he had any problem with finding her and Alistair half-naked in the cell.

She was at the end of her rope and therefore had one option left. After all, when one’s lover became shifty, one simply turned to one’s friends. It could, Mahariel thought, be all in her head.

So once her companions had pitched their tents for the night and drifted off their their own amusements, Mahariel pulled herself up by her bootstraps and approached Leliana, who sat cross-legged on a fur lovingly tuning her lute. Mahariel plopped down next to her, keenly aware that Wynne sat nearby, and no doubt would put her two coppers in. Though, she was older; perhaps she had more insight on the matter.

“I know that look,” Leliana greeted her with a wry grin, “you have something on your mind.”

“Am I that easy to read?”

“Yes,” Wynne and Leliana replied in tandem. Leliana giggled softly. “You would not last very long at court.”

Mahariel gave her friend a side-long glare, scrunching her nose up.

“What is it?”

“You’re – okay,” Mahariel sighed, not entirely sure what to say or how to say it now that she was here. She opened her mouth several times, only to close it without saying a word, not terribly unlike a fish on dry land struggling to breathe. Leliana waited patiently, continuing to tune her lute as she waited. Mahariel was not the strongest with words, the bard knew enough to let her think and find her way on her own.

“I… has, ehm, has Z-Zevran said anything… ehm… to you?” Mahariel finally asked, almost whispering. “He has been ehm… acting strange lately,” she explained.

“To me?” Leliana queried, looking up at the elf beside her. Wynne rose a thoughtful brow but said nothing.

“He likes you,” Mahariel murmured, giving Leliana a pointed look, though it held no judgement. Wynne on the other hand…

“ _ Oh.  _ Oh, no, Lyna. He hasn’t,” Leliana assured her, leaning over to bump shoulders with Lyna. The elf reciprocated and rest her head on Leliana’s shoulder. “And I wouldn’t.”

Mahariel smiled wanly. Okay, what now?

“Have you tried speaking to the boy?” Wynne asked, giving Lyna a long hard look.

Mahariel made a noncommittal noise and stared anywhere  _ but  _ at Wynne.

“Maybe you should,” Wynne pointed out, in the manner that mother’s do when they know that you know you’re not doing what you should have three days ago.

Lyna made another whimpering sound. She did not expect it to turn out with favorable results.

“Or, you can stew here,” Wynne said with a sigh, pouring a glass of wine for her and Leliana both as quietly as possible to keep Oghren from hearing the noise like a bloodhound and tromping over to drink it all himself, “fretting over something that could very well be nothing. Go,” she said more forcefully. “Speak to the boy.”

Mahariel glanced up at Leliana who simply smiled her agreement. Mahariel rolled her eyes and threw her hands up in defeat. “Okay, okay! I’ll go.” And off she went, grumbling under her breath the entire way.

At the fire Wynne and Leliana watched their fearless leader stomp like a toddler across the clearing to where Zevran was practicing his footwork as if his life depended on it. He had yet to see her when Mahariel turned to give one last pained look to Wynne and Leliana. Both rose their glass in silent toast, cheering her on.

There was a quiet awkward pause, after she had caught his attention. The women by the fire pretended not to be watching as Mahariel shifted her weight nervously from foot to foot, staring off somewhere to her left as Zevran stared at her with a quizzical expression on his face that was very near to boredom.

Leliana couldn’t help but grimace. They had gone very still…

Then suddenly the two elves burst into a flurry of motion, all waving arms and rapid gesticulating as they had some desperate argument that they were trying very hard to keep from the rest of the camp.

“I don’t think it’s going well,” Wynne said dryly. Leliana nodded in sad agreement.

Attracted by the rising emotional state of his master, Assanris had leapt from his usual spot in a hole he dug while Morrigan cultivated a solid fire, and trotted over to join the two elves. Mahariel was unhappy – he could make it better, surely. But even as Assanris approached, Mahariel nor Zevran noticed him. Even as he circled Mahariel’s feet neither noticed him – or if they did they seemed not to care.

Cutting through the quiet night like a night was Zevran’s voice: “You have other things to worry about other than me! Do those.” Then turning on heel he was gone off into the forest and leaving Mahariel stranded in the clearing with Assanris.

“ _ Fine!”   _ She spat back, throwing her hands up in defeat. She turned to go in the opposite direction, but before she was able to take a single step her shins connected with dog and down into the dirt she went, face first.

“That definitely didn’t go well,” Leliana mourned softly as she watched Assansris attempt to pick his master up. The two women remained seated by the fire, allowing Mahariel to at least pretend to have her dignity.

Sadly for her it was not to last, for it was Sten who finally came to her rescue, pulling her out of the dust as helpfully as he could manage. “The elf speaks truth,” he rumbled.

Mahariel stammered a wordless reply before crowing like a raven and storming off into the night in humiliation, leaving Sten to turn a curious eye to Leliana and Wynne.

So much for not being callow…


	30. It definitely didn't go well...

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mahariel speaks with Zevran about his strange behavior. The conversation held in the clearing.

_Go. Speak to the boy._

“Oh, sure. Go talk to him. Like it’s easy. Like I know what to say,” Mahariel grumbled. She skipped a beat, feet faltering in the dust. “What do I say? _Fenedhis_.” She searched the sky, the trees, prayed to every damned god she had and got no answer. Not that the gods could very well dispense such advice in the bare minute it took for her to reach him.

What to say, what to say, what to say…

Sorry _I cried after sex, it’s not what you think?_

_Hey, I know my ex-lover just died, but you know love is weird and I--_

_Fenedhis_ , she could _not_ say love. She didn’t love him... Did she?

She totally did. She loved him. Shit.

Mahariel’s heart sank to her toes, weighing her down like lead. She loved him; him of all men. She swallowed and her throat was tight, her mouth dry. What use did a man like him have for someone like her?

She should just turn back. Sit with Wynne and Leliana and the dog and accept her fate. A Warden’s death in the Deep Roads with no children and no legacy and no clan.

_What was she doing?_

“Hey, City Boy,” Mahariel, why didn’t you turn back? She managed a small nervous smile. Creators she was never good with words. “I ehm… long-- _fuck.”_

Zevran paused in his  footwork , poised with an invisible man on the end of his dagger and regarded Mahariel with cool curiosity. “An interesting proposal,” he commented, standing straight. He did not sheathe his daggers; he had no intention of changing his activity. “I cannot say that I have had it phrased  _quite_ like that before,” he teased, though there was little humor. 

Yep, Mahariel thought gloomily, still acting weird. He didn’t even smile.

“Ehm,” she paused, fidgeting for a moment before blurting “Care to join me in my tent?” she slurred, unable to contain the waterfall of a question any longer. It wasn’t quite how she wanted to say it – but it was close enough. _Pay attention to me, love me._ No not love, love was not the word. Nope.

“No.”

“What?” Mahariel blurted dumbly.

“I mean, no,” Zevran amended with a softer tone, “No offense, but no. I simply-- no.”

Mahariel didn’t think her heart could sink lower. After a moment’s awkward pause she nodded, trying and failing spectacularly at sounding neutral, “Oh. Okay,” she mumbled, nodding. He had always respected her wishes – it was fair that she accepted his. She turned to leave only to spin in a three-sixty degree rotation and face him again. Both of Zevran’s eyebrows were now raised.

“Can I ask what changed?” Mahariel broached quietly, dipping her chin in her best approximation of submissiveness. It was a harmless question.

“I do not wish to talk about it.” Zevran said, his expression transforming into one that Mahariel had never seen on him before. Ashamed? Scared? Zevran twirled a dagger in his hand absently, staring at the glinting red-steel. 

“Maybe you’d prefer we stopped this,” Mahariel gently supplied. She hoped he wouldn’t agree to that, but if it was going in a direction that he was not comfortable with – who was she to say no? 

“If that is what you wish,” Zevran replied with a stilted and wooden tone. His eyes finally met hers, and his expression was curiously blank.

Mahariel threw up her hands in exasperation. “No! Of course it’s not!”

“Then quit asking me such questions,” Zevran hissed, raising his voice to match hers. With a twirl of his hand, the daggers were sheathed, leaving him free to gesture as wildly as she was without risking slicing anything that didn’t deserve to be sliced. “What I said was simple enough--”

“But answers nothing,” Mahariel pointed out with a glare.

“There are other things for you to focus on besides me, I am certain. Do... do those,” Zevran growled, too loudly. If their animated conversation had not been noticed by their companions before now they were certainly invested in the argument now. Contrary to any hopeful gossips the argument was over. Zevran had turned on heel and left Mahariel standing alone in the clearing.

“ _Fine_ ,” she shouted at his retreating form, turning to leave herself. It was a pity she hadn’t noticed Assanris come to comfort her in her time of need, and with a yelp from both of them she tripped over the mabari and fell solidly into the dust, cursing the entire way.


	31. The Alienage is Awkward for Everyone

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Zevran and Mahariel handle their argument like adults. That is to say, they refuse to speak to each other unless strictly necessary. In fact, the other person does not exist. Period.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Transcript:   
> Oghren: You gonna make up or something, this is getting awkw-  
> Lyna: Shut. Up. --g and I will cut your tongue out of your head, Oghren. I swear on all that is good and pure in this world.
> 
> (Sten looks like Putin.)


	32. Reunions

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> As the Warden continues to look for dirt on Loghain, they are directed to a back alley. There they are ambushed by an old "friend" and Zevran is forced to confront himself and the life he left behind.

“There’s nothing here,” Mahariel grumbled as she rounded the corner. There was an anonymous tip that something shady was occuring in this particular area of town. Something they could use against Loghain – their messinger was shifty, and as Mahariel looked around she gloomily thought the information was bad.

Leliana had also come to the same decision – however much earlier. But now it was so much more important that she mention it. Tugging gently on Mahariel’s elbow, the bard gestured to a long set of stairs leading up to a small alleyway. The stairs, and the ground in front of them were littered with traps. The faint glimmer of the tripwire was hard to miss.

Behind the two women, Zevran’s lips thinned into a straight line.

“Alistair, hold your position.”

“What?”

Leliana and Lyna both held their hands up as he turned around. Realizing what they meant, he froze in an almost comical fashion. If the Deep Roads taught him anything it was _don’t continue moving when the rogues tell you to stop._ He learned that lesson the hard way. 

A shadow moved into place at the top of the stairs. “So here is the mighty Grey Warden at long last. The Crows send their greetings once again,” the young man said with a flourish of his hands and a deep bow.

Around her, Lyna’s companions slowly reached for their weapons. Morrigan and Wynne shot a brief glare at Zevran who had not moved and made no such grab for his daggers. His eyes were fixed solidly on the Crow towering over them.

“Tell me,” Zevran called up to the man on the stairs, “Taleisin, were you sent or did you volunteer for the job?”

Mahariel’s blood ran cold. Around them shadows slinked from the walls and took shape around them, prepared for battle. They were surrounded. Instinctively, her companions began to make a circle, back to back so that none would be able to sneak up on them. In the front stood Zevran, empty handed and Mahariel with her own daggers in hand.

“I volunteered of course,” Taleisin said strolling easily down the stairs as if he owned the world and feared nothing in it. “When I heard that the _great_ Zevran had gone rogue I simply had to see it for myself.”

Mahariel decided she did not like this man in any way shape or form.

“Is that so? Well, here I am in the flesh,” Zevran said spreading his arms wide.

“You can return with me Zevran,” Taleisin said, extending his hand to Zevran. It was an open gesture of opportunity, something in his voice made Mahariel distrust him, but she did not doubt what he said. “I know why you did this, and I don't blame you. It's not too late. Come back and we'll make up a story. Anyone can make a mistake.”

Make up a story. Anyone can make a mistake. But twice? Mahariel, chilled to the bone, looked at Zevran with fear in her eyes. Would he leave her here? Would he take the offer. Zevran’s expression was impassive, but the thump of his pulse in his throat betrayed him.

Mahariel would not stand for this.

“Zevran doesn't need the Crows any longer,” She growled up at Taliesin, taking Zevran’s hand in her own. Startled, he looked at her with wide, uncomprehending eyes.

Behind them, someone sighed. She wasn’t sure who, but the following twist of leather informed her whoever it was was now prepared for the ensuing battle her words no doubt welcomed.

“Oh? Does Zevran need to live?”

Zevran was quiet for a but a second. Beside him, all around him people who were once enemies were now prepared to defend him against the Crows. _He doesn’t need the Crows any longer._ That’s what she said. Something within him changed – it was true. Everything he had hoped for had become a reality. 

Smiling, feeling free for the first time in his life, Zevran turned back to Taliesin and shrugged. “I suspect I will manage just fine, Taliesin. I'm sorry my old friend, I am not coming back. And you should have stayed in Antiva,” he finished, drawing his daggers.

The alleyway transformed in an instant. Where once it was silent as the grave it now echoed from the crash of steel on steel, shouts and cries of pain. The death shouts of Crows and the sickly-sweet smell of blood.

When it was finished, her companions were covered in blood – Wynne was panting, and everyone was alive. Though, Alistair was complaining about a cracked skull and a broken rib. Hard to imagine through helmet and breastplate when no Crow weilded hammer, axe or mace.

As Morrigan chastized Alistair from being a baby, Mahariel went to Zevran’s side. He knelt in front of Taliesin, arm outstretched to close his old friend’s eyes for the last time.

“There it is...” he said, staring at the strangely peaceful face, “Taliesin is dead. And I am free of the Crows. They will assume I am dead along with him... So long as I do not make my presence known to them, they will not seek me out.”

“And that's a good thing, right?”

“A very good thing. It is in fat what I had hoped for ever since you decided not to kill me.

"I suppose it would be possible for me to leave, now. If I wished. I could go somewhere far away, somewhere the Crows would never find me. I... could also stay here,” Zevran added, glancing up at Mahariel for her approval.

Behind them, Alistair was half-whining, half-yelling at Morrigan for… something. Apparently the Witch had “tested” his wounds, which no doubt involved whacking him with her staff. Leliana was stifling a giggle.

Mahariel and Zevran shared a chuckle. So much for a somber and serious mood. The two elves watched each other for some hint as to what was supposed to happen next.

Finally, Zevran spoke, “I made an oath to help you, after all. And saving the world seems a worth task to see through to the end, yes?”

“Yes,” Mahariel agreed. Still, she looked down at her boots, filthy from dust and street-sewage and blood. “But… if you want to go, you should go.”

“But, that is what I'm asking you,” Zevran said, standing up and reaching for her hands. He awkwardly held them in his own, as if the affection was forbidden to him. Something he could never really have, but desperately wanted. “Do you want me to go? Do you need me here?”

Mahariel smiled softly, sadly. “I want what you want. I want what's best for you,” she said squeezing his hands.

Unbeknownst to them, their companions watched with bated breath. It was the closest they’d been since arguing in camp. They had hardly spoken to each other for days. Even Sten seemed a little invested in their making-up.

“I... am not sure how to respond to that,” Zevran said, with a nervous giggle. “Nobody has ever... I mean normally these things are decided by others. Err, then I suppose I shall.... stay,” he said, arching his eyebrows in an unspoken question. Even with his freedom, with the ability to make his own decisions, he still relied on another to aid him in making his choice. “Is that.... good?”

Mahariel laughed softly and nodded. “Yes, that is good.”

The smile that spread across his face was as brilliant as the sun. Without so much as a hesitation, and with corpses littering the ground around them, Zevran scooped Mahariel into his arms and kissed her.

Behind the newly reunited couple, all but one companion silently celebrated.


	33. Soft Proposal

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> After confronting the Crows for the last time, Zevran and Mahariel reconnect on the road to Redcliffe. And although they have no plan for the future, there is hope...

It wasn’t until much later that they were able to speak of what had happened between them. Landsmeet had been decided, many lay dead and now they were on their way to Redcliff to fight the Darkspawn army massing around the city.

A tap on her tent drew Mahariel from her anxious fidgeting, packing and repacking her gear. Checking weapons for their battle-readiness. The shadow informed her it was Zevran.

“You’re welcome inside,” she called to him. As he stepped inside the tent, she added “you always are.”

Her words drew a small smile from him. He shifted, before allowing himself to sit beside her on her furs. It had been some months since they were on the road. The last time was their fight. “I should apologize,” he began, “I have been acting like a child.”

“Yeah,” Mahariel laughed. Zevran had the grace to look ashamed, even as he too chuckled. “An assassin... must learn to forget about sentiment, you see?” He looked at her frightened she may not understand, but she did. She nodded in affirmation. She always did.

It gave him the strength to continue. Everything tumbled out of his moth with surprising ease, like a river finally escaping from a dam. “It is dangerous. You take your pleasures where you can when life is good. To expect anything more would be reckless. I thought it was the same between us. Something to enjoy. A pleasant diversion and little more. And yet...” He faltered, glancing her way with trepidation.

Mahariel blinked. _Amore…_ Oh dear. “A...a-are you saying you're in l-lloove with... me?”

"I don't know," he said in wonder. "How would you know such a thing? I grew up amongst those who sold the illusion of love, and then I was trained to make my heart cold in favor of the kill. Everything I have been taught says what I feel is wrong. Yet,” Zevran smiled lopsidedly, reaching out to cup Mahariel’s cheek with his hand. She stared up at him with wide dark eyes, entirely unable to process the information that was being given to her. Information that the back of her brain said she knew all along, but still could not comprehend. “I cannot help it. Since you asked me into your tent, I have been nothing but confused. Do you understand me at all?"

Mahariel swallowed hard, "I am no wiser than you are, Zevran."

He nodded, smiling despite himself. It soon faded, as he reached to cup her other cheeks, holding her face tenderily in his hands. With an earnestness he didn’t think himself truly capable of he said, “All I need to know is if there might be some future for us, some possibility of... I do not know what."

Mahariel smiled, eyes wet. She was teary an awful lot lately. “I hope so,” she admitted.

He smiled brightly, “Then that is enough for me. I am sorry for acting so strange.”

“It is okay,” Mahariel assured him, wrapping her arms around his middle. He hands lowered to rest on her shoulders briefly before pulling her into an embrace. One that inevitably led to a kiss.

They were breathless and grinning stupidly when they parted. “Here, it… seems an appropriate time to give you this,” he said, releasing her to remove the earring he wore.

Mahariel watched mutely.

“I acquired it on my very first job from the Crows. A Rivaini merchant prince and he was wearing a single jeweled earring when I killed him,” he said, holding the earring out in the palm of his hand. Even in the dim light of her tent, it glittered. “In fact… that’s about all he was wearing,” he chuckled. “I thought it was beautiful and took it to mark the occasion. I’ve kept it since And… I’d like you to have it.”

Mahariel caressed it in wonder. “Thank you, Zevran, It’s so beautiful.”

“You have freed me from the Crows and yet I did not think to thank you for it. No matter why you did it. It was done and I the benefactor. So… thank you,” Zevran said, barely above a whisper. He still could not quite believe what had happened – it hurt, but at the same time he felt joy. It was a curious if slightly guilt-ridden joy.

“We are friends. I was glad to do that,” Mahariel said, affixing the earring to her own ear. She had not worn such jewelry for a long time. “M...mmore than friends,” she ammended, smiling bashfully. “Vhenan.”

“Vhenan…” he laughed softly, leaning in to kiss her. “You never told me the meaning.”

“My heart,” she whispered.

“Amore,” Zevran replied. “Love."


	34. Correspondus Interuptus #8

“My love,” Wynne began with a tender voice, smiling to herself, though she read for the benefit of the others as well as herself. They looked intrigued, quite pleased that the old woman had finally joined the game. “I long to dance you beneath the moonlight, our hearts beating like the paired wings of a dove,”

“Oh how sweet,” Leliana murmured, clapping her hands together. Alistair looked like he was in severe pain – or yesterday’s supper had finally decided it was no longer happy residing in his stomach.

“...in concert with the glory of the Maker and the beauty of the world that we must shepherd in his absence. Join me in a purity that will last the ages...”

“Oh, how disappointing,” Zevran murmured, pressing his lips to Mahariel’s shoulder with a sigh. She gently elbowed him in the stomach.

“...when the brothers mark the Chant of Light anew. With all my soul, Signed: _Erec Denolven,”_ Wynne finished. She passed the letter to Leliana who held it as if it were the greatest of treasures. 

“Oh, there’s a note at the bottom!” the bard exclaimed. “Otter's pocket! He's earned it tonight!”

“That’s more like it,” Zevran chuckled.

“You’re hopeless,” Wynne grumbled.

 


	35. Traded

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I felt really gross playing this in game. As much as I love Keiran, I don't think I could make Alistair do this again unless I hated him in game. 
> 
> It's just... really shitty, man. So you know, prepare yourself for angst.

_If you value your life… if you value Alistair’s life._

How could she make such a request of Alistair? Creators, this was not what she wanted to do with her last night on Thedas, convincing one of her dearest friends to have sex with a woman she detested.

But what choice did she have?

It was selfish, truly abhorrently selfish, she knew that. But she couldn’t bear to let Alistair die, not when there was this chance to save him. And it certainly wasn’t going to be her on that chopping block – not when she’d come so far. Not when she’d finally found a reason to enjoy her life. Live her life. And now the Warden’s ask that she give it away? _Throw_ it away? No she would not stand for it. 

The walk from her quarters to those that Alistair occupied was short – perhaps a few paces at most – but she felt like she was wading through honey or molasses. She inhaled deeply and let the breath out slowly before she knocked upon Alistair’s door.

It almost immediately opened, and Alistair smiled a half-hearted smile at her appearance. Wardens together in their time of need – communion with each other. It was how it should be. Not to mention, she was with  _him._

“I see you can't sleep either,” he said ushering Lyna into his room. He wasn’t wearing a full suit of armor, but the thick breeches and tunic that protected the metal from beating against your skin too roughly in battle. It _was_ cold, and they _were_ restless. 

Mahariel rubbed her arms as Alistair meandered around the room in a circle, playing with knick-knacks on the shelves with restless energy. They could die tomorrow…

“I saw Morrigan outside your room earlier, and the look she gave me. That was icy even for her. Is something up?”

Mahariel, nodded mutely. Alistair turned to see tears in the young elf’s eyes. That above all was scary for him. Mahariel rarely cried. He was suddenly at a loss for what to do, and stood fidgeting on the other side of the room.

“I guess whatever Morrigan had to say it's big...” he commented. Again Mahariel nodded, her bottom lip quivering with the effort not to cry. “So what is it? I can take it.” Something inside him told him he couldn’t…

“I need you to do something you won't like,” Mahariel said, her voice just barely above a whisper.

Alistair laughed nervously, a sort of bubbling giggle that was too high for his age. He swallowed hard and shrugged. “Could make it sound more ominous? Tell me already.”

“What if I told you there was a way to avoid dying tomorrow?”

Alistair stared back dumbly with his mouth slightly ajar. He wasn’t sure if this was some horrible joke or if Mahariel actually planned to flee the battlefield. Now? After all this? She couldn’t… he wouldn’t accept that idea.

“You… don’t mean running do you?” He eventually asked, horrified the answer might possibly be yes.

“No. Against the Archdemon,” Mahariel said. She looked up at the ceiling beams, as if they would provide her the answers she so desperately needed. She was never good with words. What did she say?

“There’s… M-Morrigan said there m-mmmmight be a way,” she stammered, hiccuping softly between syllables. Alistair rushed to her, placing his hands, calloused but gentle on her shoulders to ground her. He’d _never_ seen her like this. “There’s a ritual, t-t-t--…. t-to keep us from dying. You from dying.”

“Well what is it?” Alistair whimpered. She couldn’t say it. Was it that horrible?

“You have to sleep w-w-with Mmmm-m-m Morrigan.”

Alistair couldn’t help but laugh, the sort of incredulous bark that some people made when presented with the utterly ridiculous. His grin almost instantly faltered. “This is pay back right? For all the jokes?” He asked, desperation tinging the edges of his voice.

Mahariel wiped the tears from her face with a shaking hand, and said nothing. Alistiar found himself mute once more. He swallowed, hands dropping from her shoulders and he looked up and away, as if his mind faded into the Void forever.

“You’re actually serious,” he said, without tone or inflection. “Wow,” he added, laughing softly, “Be killed by the Archdemon, or sleep with Morrigan. How does someone make that kind of choice?”

Mahariel choked back a sob that was almost a laugh. For all her faults, sleeping with Morrigan wasn’t  _that_ bad. Granted, Mahariel adored Morrigan – her companions… not so much. Still she was silent on the woman’s honor. 

“You’re not actually asking me to do this, are you?”

“Would you rather die?” Mahariel asked, looking up at Alistair with her strange elvhen eyes. Alistair found himself suddenly unable to read them. He did not like that one bit.

“What kind of ritual is this, anyway?” He asked tremulously.

“Some kind of ancient magic,” Mahariel shrugged. “Flemeth's most likely. I won't lie to you... it will produce a child...” Mahariel winced, prepared for whatever reaction Alistair had.

There was a piece of him that ached. Grey Warden’s couldn’t have children – or rather, it was very difficult. Something about the Blight not allowing them to conceive… but this – an honest to Maker child? His own… there was something about that he loved – and hated.

He shook his head roughly, chasing thoughts of fatherhood out of his mind. That option was not available to him with _Morrigan._ Maybe it never would be with anyone. The thought made him sad. 

“Look even if I was willing to entertain this idea - and I'm not saying I am - is this really what you want me to do? Are you sure?”

Mahariel nodded, reaching up to cup Alistair’s face in her hands. The gesture surprised him – stunned him really, and Alistair gazed down at her with the adoration he’d always felt but never had the opportunity to express to her. Shaking hands reached up to cover hers as tears brimmed in his own eyes.

“Yes,” Lyna whispered, stroking his cheeks with her thumbs, “I… there may never be a future for us, the way that you imagined, but you are dear to me, Alistair,” Mahariel confessed, hiccuping over her words again, “Vhenallin, something inside me would die if you did.”

Alistair nearly sobbed, but nodded. “Okay… I’ll,” he swallowed, Maker this was a strange thing to be asked by the person he adored so, “I’ll do it.”

Mahariel nodded, and sensing the awkwardness of their situation, dropped her hands from his face. He let her go reluctantly, feeling as if a piece of him was leaving with her as she pulled away.

“Let’s… go and get this over with before I… change my mind.”

The pair entered the hallway, Morrigan still lingered in Mahariel’s quarters; they could hear the faint click of her boots as she paced back and forth across the stone floor.

Alistair and Lyna shared one long look before he turned and trudged down the hall like man about to be hanged. Lyna watched him go, feeling like she’d traded him like chattel. And yet, she couldn’t find it in her to regret her decision...


	36. Remembrance

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> You thought the night before the Archdemon might be sexy? Well, you thought wrong. Ahahahaha, tears are never sexy! 
> 
> God, what have I done?

Mahariel had circled the castle twice before she finally retired upstairs for the final time; and even then it was more of a “please go upstairs you’re making the guards nervous” rather than any actual desire on her part.

She did _not_ want to go to her own quarters – the thought of the hallway left her feeling rather sick. Leliana was no comfort to her – or Wynne… rather, no one was but she had to go somewhere. She had no desire to speak to anyone with this sickly taste in her mouth. 

But that tainted, dirty feeling didn’t prevent her from finding herself in Zevran’s quarters. That in and of itself made her feel sick. She found herself unable to live with her decisions – was anything the right choice? She couldn’t be sure anymore.

“Amore,” Zevran called, though she did not respond. He welcomed her into his arms when she came, mutely, and rest her head on his shoulder.

He rubbed her back fondly and pressed his lips to her scalp in a small kiss. She was feeling a myriad of emotions – and he wasn’t about to try and unpack them. He knew what they were after all: they might die tomorrow, they might lose tomorrow. The fate of Thedas would forever be changed. She had every right to feel scared.

He did not however know about Alistair and Morrigan. Or Mahariel’s part to play in the whole affair.

“I want… to give you something,” Mahariel mumbled into his shoulder.

“Oh? You shower me with gifts, my dear Warden,” Zevran replied, as Mahariel stood straight. He watched curious as she removed an amulet from around her neck; one of three he noted she always wore: the Warden’s promise, which reminded her of her duty and not actually a mage’s phylactery, the amulet given to her by the Spirit in the Temple of Sacred Ashes that Mahariel called _Remembrance_ and the one she now held in her hand. 

It was a curious knot-work puzzle he’d seen worn by many among the Dalish,  with beads strong along side it, all in the shapes of the animals of the forest . It was this she briefly held out to show him it’s make. 

“It’s… ironbark. June’s knot,” Mahariel explained, “It… belonged to my father, who gave it to my mother. She left it for me to remember them by. I… I want you to have it,” she finished. Tentatively she rose her arms to drape the necklace around Zevran’s neck. 

He stopped her. Gentle hands held her arms away. “No,” he said, “You will not say goodbyes.”

“I am not saying goodbye, I am… giving it to you, that’s all,” Mahariel lied.

“To remember you by,” Zevran quipped.

Mahariel nearly sobbed, and Zevran found himself no longer fighting her. He swallowed down the lump in his throat as the necklace rested against him, hanging just beside his heart. Tenderly, he drew her close to him and held her as she cried, curious and frightened of  t he dampness in his own eyes. 


	37. Victory

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I can't even use "In Death, Victory" cause that would lead you to believe someone important died. It never applies to the Archdemon, just the Wardens. 
> 
> Oh, well. Hey, I have a happy ending for once in my life, aren't you relieved? 
> 
> Well... happy for now... you never know right?


	38. Where the Wind Takes You

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Origins is finished. Technically.
> 
> Thinking about it I probably won't do much with Awakenings, since they're apart, and the story is mostly about their relationship with each other and a few others. 
> 
> Anything else following this little series of epilogues will be bonus.

“Well, my dear Warden, what now?” Zevran inquired. The celebrations continued, though the Dalish elf had fled from the lime-light not long after they started. Loud, boisterous shems still made her uneasy, and she was never one for the city in the first place.

Mahariel shrugged. “I have no idea, the past year has been nothing but run, run, run. Fight, don’t sleep. Slay the archdemon. Stop the Blight. Now we’ve done it and… I don’t know what to do next.” She leaned against a tall tree in a quiet place of the castle courtyard, staring up at the orange light coming from the celebratory bonfires across Denerim.

“Alistair mentioned something about Warden-Commander,” she commented idly.

“Oh, a promotion,” Zevran teased. “How very lucky for you.”

“Ugh,” Mahariel replied with a roll of her eyes. More responsibility. “I suppose I will work to clear Fereldan of the last of the Darkspawn horde and then… wherever the wind takes me.”

Zevran nodded, smiling sadly. Wherever the wind took her? Perhaps it would be with him… perhaps not.

“And you, Vhenan?” Mahariel said, reaching out to pull Zevran to her by his belt. He happily obliged, and rest his weight against her under the tree.

“I do not know… my duty and oaths are fulfilled,” he said. “Wherever the wind takes me, no?”

Mahariel nodded, smiling wide enough scrunch up the bridge of her nose. “Will it take you to me?” she murmured drawing close to kiss him.

“If that is what you wish,” Zevran whispered back.

“It is,” Mahariel murmured, just before their lips touched. They remained so, enjoying the others’ presence without guilt or worry that it might be the last time. They were free to pursue whatever they wished. There was nothing more the pair could wish for.

But nothing ever lasted forever, and neither one was the type to sit idly. “Will it take you to Antiva?” Mahariel inquired, nuzzling Zevran’s neck.

“Hmm, maybe,” Zevran’s replied noncommittally. But he knew in the depths of him it would. He had faced death itself, Crows by the dozen and now an Archdemon. There was nothing he could not conquer, and the more that he thought since Taleisin found him, the more he found he could not refuse the call back to Antiva.

No child should be made to suffer as he did. As Rinna did. As Taleisin. Not another child would be deprived of their choice… He had a duty, as Mahariel did.

She perceived his stillness, and lleaned her head against the tree to look at her lovers’ face. “Will you kill them?” she asked, lips twitching into the tiniest of smiles.

“What?” Zevran asked, turning back to her with surprise.

“The Crows will leave you be – think you dead. But you cannot do the same, can you?”

Zevran couldn’t stop the wicked grin that spread across his face, “You, my dear, have learned much from Leliana.”

“And you,” Mahariel said with a cock-sure smile. “Will you kill them?” she asked again.

Zevran thought for a moment, before his expression hardened. Yes, yes he would. He would tear down the Crows piece by piece by piece.

“Can I help?” Mahariel asked, guessing his answer before he even said it.

Zevran’s heart felt like it had sprouted wings and flown away into the clear, cold night. “Of course, my deadly sex goddess!”


	39. Greetings from Antiva

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Greetings from Antiva!
> 
> I would prefer to be where you are, my sweet. Antiva is so dull without you to brighten it. Even with the Crows trying to hunt me down, this place lacks the excitement of being at your side. Ah, well. I expect the Guildmaster will agree to meet me soon. Or maybe I should kill him. What do you think?
> 
> I hear the darkspawn have still not gone away? They are like houseguests who overstay their welcome, no? I am saddened you have to deal with such business without me. I must deal with the Crows, but when I return to you, not even sharp razors will be able to separate us!
> 
> Until then, you remain in my dreams. Especially the naughty ones.
> 
> Yours always,  
> Z.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> “Well, if it isn’t the prodigal son,” intoned a cultured and rather musical voice, “Welcome home, Zevran.” The voice belonged to a man of no small stature; through layers of velvet, satin and iron was pure muscle and sinew. He moved with smooth solid purpose, every step measured and placed with utmost care. He was a man who knew what he was, and what he wanted and what he was capable of in order to get it.

He shadowed Zevran just a hand’s breadth from the elf’s elbow like a shadow and whispered threat But the elf did not turn to face him – in fact, he was rather comfortable having the Master at his back as he strolled through the Grand Hall of the Rookery to his final destination. Luca had made it very clear over the years that although he greatly wished to see Zevran’s death, he wanted to _watch_ and _revel_ in it, rather than kill him with his own hand. 

“First cherished Rinna,” Luca said in his strangely comforting tone, “And now valiant Taleisin. Tell me, Zevran, what story will you spin this time?” 

Zevran glanced side-long at the Master walking beside him, a faint smile tugging at the corner of his lips. Among the Crows, such an expression was akin to a wolf baring its teeth in a snarl. The Master grinned back. “There is no story to spin, my dear Luca,” Zevran quipped.

“Oh, is that so?” Luca replied with a curious tilt of his head. The Master stopped walking as Zevran neared the Grand Master’s hall. “I can only imagine the ramifications of such a statement,” he laughed. 

Zevran paused before he entered, turning his back to the Crows standing at attention on either side of the grand doorway, with its ironmongery more for aesthetic than defense. In a hall full of men and women trained to kill there was little need to protect against sage. Even the grandest army would be annihilated at the entrance, if they ever dared to stand against the Crows. 

The two Crows glanced sidelong at each other, while Zevran’s back was turned. Everyone knew Zevran at this point – and everyone was waiting for the judgment that would be passed regarding his betrayal of the Crows. The same sort of betrayal that led him to murder one of their own once upon a time. 

The elf shrugged and laughed at Luca, bringing the man’s haughty smile to an ugly grimace. It was just the sort of behavior that made the man hate Zevran from the very start – and Zevran knew that; played right into it. People were always  _stupid_ when they were angry. 

“I am sure you will not have to rely on _imagination_ for long, old friend,” Zevran said with a wink. 

With that, the elf opened the oaken door to meet the Grand Master. Behind him hundred of eyes watched Zevran turn his back upon them for the final time. He would not emerge alive, no doubt. 

Zevran, in his arrogance and his determination, knew that he would not be the one to die today.

The reception hall he stood in was empty, except for golden statues along the walls staring down at him with hollow eyes. Old dignitaries, old Masters all representing the promises of the Crows. Once upon a time he felt a twinge of fear and exhilaration standing under the scrutiny of their eyes. Now he just felt grim determination. 

No longer would the Crows strip him of what he was. No longer would they do the same to others. They would be  _free._

The Grand Master’s back was turned to him, only their head turned toward him at the sound of his entrance. Zevran touched the Dalish knot-work pendant hanging around his neck and steeled himself. He would leave these halls alive. 

His steps echoed on the marble as he approached the Grand Master and knelt upon the stone. His head bowed in reverence as he had done time and time again. 

They did not move from the window they stood in front of. Let the elf sit in silence, sweating, anxious regarding his fate. Let him suffer in his arrogance, they thought to themselves. He had turned his back on them; he above all Crows, knew what that meant. And now he would pay the price. 

But every moment only served to calm and center Zevran. It would be their undoing. 

“I suppose,” they finally said, “I should welcome you back to Antiva and the arms of the Crows. You have made the right decision returning, Zevran.” The Grand Master turned, settling an icy-blue gaze on their little turncoat. When Zevran lifted his head, their expression was schooled into one of compassion, though their eyes remained hollow as the golden statues that watched them. 

A lesser man would have looked at their face and been deceived. Zevran knew better. The Grand Master meant to kill him – but not here. Here it was quiet. Here it was simply an assassination. Their duty and their desire. But in order to prevent such insubordination again, Zevran would have to be made an example of; and that gave him time to retaliate. 

“Although,” The Grand Master said as they approached the Crow with their hands held behind their rigid back. Where Luca was all fluid steps and easy smiles, the Grand Master was rigid steel and sharp edges. “every Crow sent to retrieve you has mysteriously disappeared. No doubt due to your Warden benefactor. 

“Including Taleisin, of course,” they said, voice soft as silk. They watched Zevran’s face for any twitch or shadow to betray him, yet nothing did. Zevran was impassive; all except his eyes, which had an edge of desperation. 

In their arrogance, they imagined such a shadow begging for his life. The Master smiled down at  Zevran and extended a black-gloved hand to rest tenderly upon his head, petting his hair as one would a beloved child. 

“What happened, Zevran?” they asked. 

Zevran inhaled, staring up at the compassionate face of the Grand Master. Now or never, he would never be so close again. Yet under the thick velvet mantle and lined with ermine – even in this heat – the Grand Master wore the same black armor that every Crow possessed. To the outside eye it was nearly impenetrable, but to a fellow Crow the chinks in the armor were glaringly apparent. 

He had his target. The time was ticking – and the Game had officially begun. 

Zevran leaned his head into their hand and exhaled with the tiniest tremble. Let them think him afraid. Let them think he was weak. Broken. “I failed to kill the Warden,” Zevran said, “They offered me my life, and I took it. I did not want to die. It was cowardice.”

The Grand Master tsked them softly, brushing their thumb against his cheek where the Crows has tattooed their mark upon him. A reminder of where he belonged. Who he belonged to. 

“She offered me protection.” _Freedom. “_ It was she who killed the Crows that came after me.” L _ie. “_ And Taleisin.” L _ie._ His eyes finally betrayed him. A curated effort. 

A flash of realization caused the Grand Master to step back – but they neglected to bring their arm down from where they had been caressing his head. Right arm up, armpit open –  between the fourth and fifth rib – a soft spot that led directly into the lung. 

Zevran drew the blade he’d concealed in his bracer and lunged. He struck – but not nearly deep enough. 

They didn’t become Grand Master for nothing. 

The two opponents now stood on opposite sides of the Reception Hall, staring each other down in the quiet stillness. No soul outside the room had yet learned what their little meeting had devolved into. 

The Grand Master laughed, touching the little spot of blood oozing from the space where Zevran had nicked them. They rubbed the blood against the leather of their fingertips, delighted that a challenge had been issued. 

They so rarely got to  _kill_ anyone anymore. 

“I’m impressed, Zevran. Did you expect to puncture my lung and watch me suffocate at your feet?” they asked, drawing their own daggers, and stalking toward him. Their eyes glint with delight. Luca wasn’t the only one that wanted to watch him die, but unlike Luca, they wanted to deliver the killing blow themselves. 

“I had hoped that would be the case, yes,” Zevran admitted with a grin and a shrug. For every step the Master took, he stepped side-ways, keeping them in front of him and always moving. Yet while he’d hoped to have killed them in one shot, now he simply hoped to wear on their stamina. 

“And now what is your plan, hmm?” The Grand Master asked. “You cannot attack outright: the clash of metal will bring every other Crow into this room. You cannot hope to kill everyone.”

“Not yet,” Zevran boasted. 

Again, they laughed. “Will you attempt to outwit me, then? Push me through a window, enrage me so that I take a wrong step?”

“You are not other Crows. You will not fall to such tactics,” Zevran pointed out. 

“No? Then what is your plan?”

“I give you a _Quiet Death,”_ Zevran replied. 

The Grand Master paused, and their smile faded. Ignacio was in Ferelden, was he not? Ignacio had been keeping tabs on their contracts there. He helped the Warden buy her freedom from the Crow s. And through Ignacio… the Warden would have met Cesar. Through Cesar, she acquired access to the rarer stocks that even some Crows were not able to acquire. 

“In truth,” Zevran said, idly spinning his daggers as he watched them come to the realization of their fate, “the Warden gave me my life and through it my freedom. I killed every Crow that came to enslave me again; including Taleisin. 

“And I will kill every Crow that moves to enslave others as I was.” 

A guffaw, turned into a laugh, and that in turn became a wheezing cough. The Grand Master stared down at their hand as the daggers they held drooped toward the marble floor. They could not feel their fingers – and every breath was an effort. 

Their head throbbed with every pulse of their heart, first a rapid fluttering like the wings of a hummingbird, now little more than quiet foot-falls on grass. 

Through the Warden, Zevran had access to poisons that they had meticulously tried to limit some members of the Crows from acquiring. He needed but to scratch them with a blade in order to deliver a killing amount. 

And they would slide into sweet oblivion, like an old woman in bed. How very, very disappointing for them to die like this. No grand battle, no great struggle. Just soft, peaceful death like snow melting in spring heat. 

They looked up into Zevran’s cold eyes, and opened their mouth to speak, but it was like moving through a fog. Cotton in their mouth, mist before their eyes. Their limbs held fast as if stuck in sucking mud. 

The elf watched as the Grand Master, once feared and revered fell face first into the marble with a sickening thud and moved no more. 

He stood in the vast hall, staring at the corpse of the Master and felt… empty. Like something was missing. Like something wasn’t right – it was too easy. Too quick. Too quiet. He looked at the door, waiting for an army of Crows to enter and massacre him. But nothing happened. 

In shock and filled with the nervous excitement of seeing your own life flash before your eyes, Zevran laughed. But his work was not yet done…

When the Crows entered the Reception Hall an hour later, curious about Zevran’s fate they found a horror they did not expect. Their leader dead, their face an unnatural, mottled purple in a pool of their own blood. Around them, the severed head of every golden statue that watched the Grand Master perish.


	40. The Showdown

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> After a year apart, Mahariel and Zevran reunite on Antivan soil, and story soon becomes legend.

The din of the Antivan docks was almost overwhelming. It was louder than any place in Fereldan, more varied than the Free Marches, and just about as boisterous as the celebration following the slaying of the Archdemon.

It took all of her bravery and strength of will to step off the merchant vessel that carried her there. Gazing up at the city of shining marble, gold and glittering blue canals Mahariel was almost undone. To think that she could traverse the depths of the Deep Roads, slay a thousand darkspawn and rise to the height of Warden-Commander of Fereldan only to find herself beside herself in fear over a little dock.

She couldn’t help but laugh at her folly. Nodding to the crew that had brought her here, Mahariel disembarked onto Antivan soil at last. It had been nearly a year of traded letters. A year clearing the last vestiges of darkspawn from the surface. A year as Warden Commander, sleepless nights and nightmares.

Now, she finally had the opportunity to leave that life. To live quietly. Free of her duties and the thousands upon thousands of men and women trusting her with their lives. Save us, free us, protect us. No more. She had but one desire – live happily ever after.

Lyna had but to find him.

But her footsteps in Antiva did not go unnoticed. Shadows, unbeknownst to her followed her every move. Though the Hero of Fereldan may never have been to Antiva, they knew her name – they knew her reputation. And now they knew she was here.

And while there was no official contract upon her life – and never would be thanks to her dealings with Ignacio, the Crows did know her presence would attract a man upon whom they _did_ have a contract. It would only be a matter of time…

For Mahariel the hours she spent looking for her lover seemed a thousand years. Passing by as slow as molasses in the winter chill. Her heart beat ever faster until finally – oh, she would know that silhouette anywhere. 

“Aneth ara, City Boy,” she called, stalking up behind him with footfalls light as falling snow. 

Zevran whirled around to face her with surprise clearly written across his fine features. It took a moment for him to process the image of the elf that stood before him, her dark eyes shining with mirth and a cheeky grin that spread from ear to ear. He could not quite believe it  _was her._ She’d changed – her hair was a little grey at the temples and- well  _she had hair._ A kinky dark halo around head that framed her round face perfectly. And, gracing her right ear: a glittering gold earring, one that was so very familiar to him. 

“Amore,” he murmured, struck by her visage, “I did not expect you...”

“I may have mislead you in my last letter,” Mahariel said with a bashful shrug, “I wanted to surprise you.”

“And it is truly a wonderful surprise,” Zevran laughed, enveloping her in his arms. Although the marketplace was quiet crowded, the two elves still drew attention. It was easy to spot a Crow – hard to find them so engaged in affectionate embraces and tearful reunions. Especially, given the fact that Mahariel still wore her Commander’s armor. 

But their reunion would not go uninterrupted. The flash of metal caught Mahariel’s eye, and with a gentle squeeze she stepped away from her lover, feigning ignorance of their ambush. “How have you been? Engaged in your daring adventures, no doubt.”

“Always, my dear Grey Warden,” Zevran replied, catching Mahariel’s sly glance. She’d gotten better at subterfuge in his absence, no doubt she practiced in her year as Commander. Being a leader of such height required a certain level of subtly, after all. “Just like old times,” he winked. 

The two elves shared a wicked grin. So much for her happily ever after, Mahariel thought, drawing  _Vigilance_ and Duncan’s dagger. Together, they turned to face their attackers, back to back. The Crows surrounding them were caught momentarily off guard as the square emptied with quick footwork and few screams. Bloodshed was an every aspect of Antivan life – many just retreated to the safety of home and market shop to watch from windows and doorways. 

“Just like old times,” Mahariel echoed, grinning back at the Crows that advanced.


	41. Interlude

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A brief interlude presented without comment.

"Those bastards," Mahariel growled as she skid to a halt amongst the carnage they'd left in the marketplace. Zevran was at her heel, panting and sweating from their run-in with the Crows. Littered among the bodies was every kind of sword, dagger, axe and mace known to shem in all Thedas, of every quality and make except for one specific dragonbone sword she'd carried since fighting the Archdemon.

_Vigilance._

"Someone stole my sword," Mahariel hissed, glaring at the people that were either in the process of vacating the area or looting the bodies strewn around on the cobbled street. One young man who'd strayed a little too close to the Warden received a solid glare before Zevran, laughingly, took her elbow and tugged her back. They  _had_ to leave. They'd already been on the run when Mahariel did an about face without explaining why. He'd no choice but to follow her back to the scene of their  _"_ crime."  

"Amore, we'll get it back," he assured her, gently pulling her away from the square.

"We better," Lyna hissed as she reluctantly followed. It was no where to be seen - they _had_ to make themselves scarce or face consquences more dire than Crows, though Mahariel couldn't imagine that for the life of her. Push come to shove, she'd pull the Hero and Warden bit and escape scott-free. Well, hopefully... "Wade will kill me if we don't."

"You're afraid of Wade?"

"You do remember Wade, don't you?" Mahariel laughed.

"Point taken," Zevran chuckled.

 


	42. Corin's Proposal

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The final chapter, and end of the Warden's story.
> 
> For now...

"I found some poetry," Mahariel murmured into Zevran's shoulder as they lay naked and limbs entwined that evening. She had traveled long, fought a dozen Crows in the square and now lay with her lover in a secluded little loft with a view of the sea. It was like the trials before the Landsmeet all over - with a prettier landscape. She felt home and safe for the first time since slaying the Archdemon.

"I didn't want to send it in a letter," she explained after Zevran murmured a noise of disappointment.

"Will you read it now, amore?" He asked, turning to tenderly kiss her forehead. Mahariel nodded mutely, and rising out of his arms, fetched a sheaf of letters from her pack. When she sat back on the bed next to him, she ruffled them nervously.

"So many - I had not imagined you bring me a book," Zevran teased.

"It's a series," Lyna explained with a lopsided smile. "I found them scattered around the Blackmarsh."

"How romantic."

"Oh hush," Mahariel giggled, gently whacking his arm. He retaliated by smoothly catching her wrist and pulling her back into his arms. Comfortably draped across him, Mahariel cleared her throat and read:

 _"You are my hen, the mistress of my flock. You nourish my_ body, _and tend to my... rooster._  
_"Lost beneath the trees, he lifts a weary head and sees, her burning love lights his way home._  
_"With cold dead eyes, the dragon gazes on your prize._  
_"Across the waters from the baroness's nest, find what you seek where the fishermen rest."_

"It does not read well, does it?" Zevran commented, his brows knit pensively.

"I admit, it was much nicer in the moment," Mahariel agreed. "Now hush.  
  
_"Look for the stones, they stand tall and true. The biggest has a present for you._  
_"This is the last, you're almost there. Remember the pond where we started our affair?_  
  
"I.... The last bit is sad," Mahariel warned him. She swallowed, and winced at the pain it caused her from her anxiety. Zevran's expression was measured; she never did well with pity, but he was genuinely concerned with her sudden increase in anxiety. 

"Tell me anyway," he asked, rubbing her back comfortingly.

Mahariel sighed and closed her eyes. Boistered by his touch she finished:

_"Bonnie, you are my son, my moon, my everything. Will you marry me?"_

"That is sad?"

"She refused him. I found her letter on his skeleton. He drank poison," Mahariel murmured. "She didn't follow his clues past cock. Apparently, she didn't enjoy dirty poetry like we do."

"A tragedy," Zevran murmured. "On more than one level, no?"

Mahariel nodded mutely. She breathed deep and with a heavy sigh, rose up on her elbow to look at Zevran's face. "Zev?"

"Yes, amore?" he asked with a lazy grin.

"Will you stay with me? Never to be parted again by Crow or Warden?" Mahariel asked, lifting an old gold earring she'd found on her travels apart from him. Perhaps it intended to be given to another - but Mahariel knew its fate would be with a different keeper. 

Zevran was momentarily speechless. The weight of what she asked, after the poetry she read was not lost on him at all. It wasn't that he wanted to refuse; no, it was the shock that someone would ever ask him in the first place. Oh they'd discussed this once before, all but said yes. This was different. This was real.

As Mahariel's hand began to tremble, Zevran smiled and rose up to sit next to her. His hands rose to cup her cheeks with a tenderness he'd never felt before and softly kissed her. "Nothing will part us, Amore. Not even the sundering of the world."


End file.
